


The Curtain Must Fall

by Minkel23



Category: Captain Planet and the Planeteers
Genre: Angst, Death by drowning mentioned, Divorce, Drowning, F/M, IVF, Infertility mentioned, Intrigue, M/M, Mind the Tags, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Will update tags as story progresses, not sure where this is going yet, planeteer split, post planeteers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2019-10-28 14:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 70,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17789108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minkel23/pseuds/Minkel23
Summary: Traumatised by a mission gone wrong, Linka and Wheeler have gone their separate ways into the world. But when a new evil rises and threatens to engulf them, they must work through their past pain to welcome a brighter future.(Smut and angst sprinkled throughout, naturally).





	1. Elongate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Missgoldy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missgoldy/gifts).



> So... to any of the Reylo readers who follow me, a little explanation. I persuaded the delightful Miss Goldy to write a Reylo fic, and in exchange, I humbly offer her a piece for her own fandom.
> 
> I don’t know Captain Planet well, but I’ve been studying hard (ie reading comics, fanfic and using google) and I have a general idea of how it goes.
> 
> It’s basically the same trope I always use (soulmates gone wrong, angst and smut aplenty) so hopefully this won’t be a complete insult to all the CP fans out there. 
> 
> I’ve set it in the modern day, and changed one or two details that will be explained later. Xx

Her hair was still wet from her shower and dripping steadily onto the towel she clutched around her chest. Deprived for the most part of sunshine and fresh air, her once light blonde locks have darkened, settling into an ash blonde that doesn’t entirely displease her. So much has changed in so short a time. Her home. Her friends. Her life. Why should her hair be any different? Sometimes she thinks about cutting the lot off. About walking into a salon and asking for her hair to be razed to her shoulders. About seeing her tresses on the floor, an abandoned mess, nothing more than keratin fibres and memories better consigned to the past.

 

But even as the thought crossed her mind, she reached for her hair protectively, whirling a damp strand around her fingers. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could still see his face next to hers. She could almost feel his hands, warm and sure, against her scalp and in her curls. Could almost feel his breath against her cheek and in her ear, soft and alluring.

 

But no. She forced herself to open her eyes, staring at herself in the mirror.

 

_ Let go of him like he let go of you,  _ she reminded herself sternly.

 

She began to apply her foundation and blusher, using a cruelty-free, palm-oil free and carbon footprint friendly brand that is so bad it’s less like using make-up and more like using crayons and fingerpaint. But if her beauty is the price to pay for a healthy planet, well, so be it. She’s seen firsthand the effects everyday selfishness are taking on the Earth, and refuses to play any further part in that wanton destruction. Besides, she only uses a touch of make-up, and only ever on special occasions.

 

Like tonight.

 

Tonight, she reminds herself again, is a special occasion.

 

She has a date tonight. Her first date in... actually, it probably counts as her first date ever, she supposes. Certainly she never had time for dating before, and what she did with  _ him  _ can hardly be counted as dating. Friendship, perhaps. Mild flirting, absolutely. But not dating. Definitely not dating.

 

Tonight, she’s going out with her Professor. She’s been at the University of Cambridge for a year now, studying for her masters in biological anthropology and environmental sciences. And for about the same length of time, she’s noticed Dr. Richard Cox staring at her during every lesson. A subtle glance here, a lingering smile there... his attention made her feel uncomfortable and flattered all at once. For even now, twenty-two years old and a little more wordly than she ever was at sixteen, she still finds male interest perplexing and almost unwelcome. 

 

But at the same time, she needs to do this. Needs to prove to herself that there are other men than  _ him.  _ That there is more to romance than a few cheap lines thrown easily over a waste ground, that there is more to a kiss than a quiet, stolen moment. That she is worth more than the final line  _ he  _ left her with.

 

‘I’m gonna go back home and try new things,’ he’d said, ultra casual, as though her heart weren’t on the line and her hopes turning to ash in her mouth. ‘This has been fun, but it’s done now, you know?’ He’d shrugged, turning away from her to lie back on the sand, bringing his hands to his face to block out the blinding light of the sun. ‘You should too,’ he’d added, almost as an afterthought. ‘Try new things, I mean. New people.’

 

Well, it had taken over a year, but now she would do just that. Try a new person. Date him and talk with him and maybe kiss him, trying him out just like she would a new coat or pair of shoes. 

 

That thought makes her shudder, as does the uncomfortable idea that she might finally have said yes to Dr. Richard Cox for all the wrong reasons. He’d been asking her to dinner for about six months, and until yesterday, she’d always refused. 

 

‘You are my professor; it would not be right,’ she’d always argued. And he hadn’t pressed her, hadn’t debated her point. There was never a cocky response to her disinterest, or a throwaway quip designed to disguise his hurt at her refusal. Dr. Richard Cox wasn’t  _ him,  _ after all. 

 

No. Dr. Richard Cox was thirty-eight, distinguished, intelligent, and good-looking, albeit in a muted, sedate kind of way. She isn’t wildly attracted to him, and nor does her heart race in his presence, not like with... well, what does attraction matter, in the end? She’s a biological anthropologist, after all. She knows that attraction is merely a trick of the brain. A response designed to ensure healthy offspring and a suitable environment for rearing them in. As always, she felt an unreasonable dart of anger for her own brain, for tricking her into feeling something for someone so unsuitable. Because in every sense of the word,  _ he  _ was unsuitable. Her exact opposite in living, breathing form. The cheese to her chalk, the hot to her cold, the fire to her...

 

She stopped, taking a deep breath to clear her mind.

 

_ Concentrate on the make-up,  _ she told herself.  _ Don’t think about the past. _

 

When she appeared in the basic living room she shared with three other girls, twenty minutes and three eyeliner applications later, one of her flatmates nodded her approval at her appearance. 

 

‘Helena, darling, you’ll knock him dead,’ Laura purred in that crisp and privileged British twang that still made Helena wince, even after a year.

 

‘I would rather he lived through dinner, though,’ she replied, with a smile.

 

Laura smirked. ‘Already thinking of dessert, are we darling?’

 

‘No,’ Helena said instantly. ‘I am thinking of the cost.  _ Les Marmites  _ is a little, umm, rich for my pocketbook?’ Laura nodded at the phrasing, seeing the unspoken question in Helena’s eyes. ‘And you cannot split a bill with a dead man.’

 

‘God darling, don’t split the bill. Let him pay,’ Laura urged. ‘Oh, when he reaches for the bill, you should protest a little, of course. But don’t set yourself up as one of those  _ activists  _ or  _ feminists.  _ Men like Dr. Cox don’t care for women like that.’

 

Helena raised an eyebrow in confusion. ‘Women like that?’

 

‘Oh, you know,’ Laura said knowingly. ‘The ones who care too much.’

 

Helena gave a tight smile. She’s always been the type to care too much. She wouldn’t be where she was if she hadn’t.

 

‘What will you do tonight while I am out?’ she finally asked by way of reply. Laura shrugged.

 

‘Oh, I’m going to drink the rest of that bottle of wine in the fridge and watch mindless television. Now that exams are finished for the year I could do with a little less mental stimulation and a little more brain-rotting fluff.’

 

Helena nodded. ‘But you will remember to eat something too? You should not drink on an empty stomach.’ 

 

Even now, with someone she doesn’t quite like enough to call a friend but doesn’t dislike enough to cut out, Helena cares too much.

 

But Laura suddenly grins. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about me. I’ll find something to nibble on. Although I have to admit, there’s an American dish on at 8pm tonight that I’m probably going to lap right up.’

 

Helena frowned in confusion. ‘Hamburgers? Or Hot Dogs? I did not know we had any in the house and...’

 

Laura laughed. ‘Oh, I do love how you use English, darling. I didn’t really mean food, Helena. I meant on the television. That American TV reporter, you know, the one who did all those environment issue reports for the CW? The YouTuber? Well, they’ve given him his own show now. It launches next week so he’s on  _ Graham Norton  _ tonight, doing an interview.’

 

Helena suddenly felt a lurching sense of dread mixed with an all too familiar anticipation. ‘What American reporter?’ she asked, already knowing the answer and hating herself for needing- no,  _ wanting- _ further clarification. 

 

Laura looked at her in mock horror. ‘You haven’t heard of him? What, have you been living under a rock for the past year?’

 

‘No... no, I’ve been living here,’ Helena replied confusedly, almost certain she had missed something. It was a common frustration of her life that she was yet to speak English without betraying her Russian background. She thought that by now she’d have learnt all the different idioms and subtexts of the English language, but no. How was it that she knew all the Latin names for the different types and sub-types of early man but still couldn’t understand everyday English? It made her grit her teeth with annoyance.

Laura grinned. ‘I know that, darling. I only meant that James Wheeler is kind of the celebrity of the moment right now. Good-looking, charming, and all about saving the planet. He’s the perfect cover-boy for the eco-lifestyle.’

 

‘James Wheeler?’ Helena asked, her mouth dry. 

 

‘Yes,’ Laura carried on effortlessly. ‘He was one of the Planeteers, did you ever hear of them? Back in Russia? Were they a thing over there?’

 

‘No,’ Helena lied easily.

 

‘Oh,’ Laura looked surprised. ‘I’m almost certain one of them was Russian. Or maybe she was Ukrainian. Or Polish. Well, whatever. I only ever really cared about Wheeler and Kwame. I’m pretty sure the whole thing was a gimmick, but they were a good-looking gimmick and I wouldn’t kick either of them out of bed for eating biscuits, if you know what I mean.... actually, you probably don’t,’ Laura smiled. ‘Well, Helena, it means that-’

 

‘I can guess what you meant,’ Helena replied quickly. ‘You don’t need to elongate.’

 

‘Elaborate, darling,’ Laura grinned again. ‘You mean elaborate.’

 

‘So... this... this James Wheeler,’ Helena fought down a blush. ‘He is a television star now?’

 

‘Hmm, I would say so. Like I said, he was a Planeteer. After they disbanded he went back to New York, started a YouTube channel. Reported on environmental issues, but made it fun and relevant for teenagers and young adults. He managed to blag an interview with a Kardashian for it, and then a few music stars. After Obama did a bit for him the CW snapped him up for a regular slot on one of their shows. Now he has his own. The reviewers said it was funny and irreverent but in a serious way. Like, climate change but with an appealing edge.’

 

‘Oh,’ Helena replied weakly. So that was what he was doing these days. Well, if anyone could make climate change appealing it was James Wheeler.

 

She should know.

 

‘Honestly, Helena, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. He’s been all over the internet the past six months. A regular viral superstar. Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr... all the usual places.’

 

‘You know I do not use social media,’ Helena replied tightly. ‘And I am so busy with my education. With my English lessons...’ she drifted off, unwilling to admit that when it came to James Wheeler, she’d made a pact with herself not to search for him online. That sort of behaviour inevitably led down a dangerous path she had no desire to climb again.

 

Laura suddenly snapped her fingers, startling Helena.

 

‘I’ve got it,’ she abruptly announced. ‘There was a Russian planeteer. Linka... Linka Orlova. She was kind of a non-descript blonde. Tall and leggy but dull as dishwater. Oh, sorry. What that means is that...’

 

‘I think I know,’ Helena interrupted. ‘She was- ah, you might say- uninteresting?’

 

‘Well, like I said, I never paid attention to her. But she always seemed so serious. Never smiled, refused to give interviews or pose for photographs, stood there in the background looking sour while Wheeler and Kwame did all the talking. Hmm,’ Laura’s eyes suddenly snapped up to Helena’s. ‘Your surname is Orlova too. That’s funny, isn’t it?’

 

‘It’s a common Russian surname,’ Helena shrugged. ‘There must be a million people with that name,’ she cleared her throat.  ‘So, what happened to her? The Russian planeteer?’

 

Laura shrugged. ‘I should know? They all went back to their people after that last mission,’ Laura sighed. ‘It was such a terrible thing, what happened to them then. Did you know that-’

 

But Helena stood abruptly. ‘I will be late,’ she said sharply. ‘Richard will be waiting for me.’

 

‘Oh. Okay,’ Laura said, relaxing back into the sofa. ‘I do hope you have a good time, darling. You’re so serious normally. Always studying or reading... never going anywhere or doing anything. You deserve to go out and blow off a little steam.... Sorry, I mean, you should have some fun, darling. And tell you what, I’ll set  _ Graham Norton  _ to planner so you can watch James Wheeler’s interview when you get home. Then you’ll see what I’m talking about.’

 

Helena stared at Laura for a long moment. Her reply, when she gave it, was curt and cold. 

 

‘Don’t bother. I am not really interested.’ 

 

‘In the show or in James Wheeler?’

 

Helena shrugged. ‘In either. Both.’

 

_ Let go of him,  _ she told herself again, for the thousandth time. For the millionth time. 

 

_ Let go of him, just like he let go of you. _

 

***

 

Dr. Richard Cox was good company to Helena over dinner. He chatted with her about her course and plans for her future, lingering with her long after their plates had been emptied and coffee cups cleared.

 

‘Of course, you should go on to PhD level,’ he intoned, sipping at a deep red claret he’d ordered for them both as a  _ digestif _ . ‘With your background and intelligence, you’re the perfect candidate. I think a doctorate in the evolutionary reproductive culture of birds and its similarity to the reproductive culture of indigenous peoples would be right up your lane, Helena. What did your last professor think? When you were an undergraduate? He obviously recommended you to a Masters here, so he must have been impressed.’

 

Helena gave a small smile, sipping at her own wine. She’d never been a good drinker, and she’d already drunk far more than she usually did. She needed to pace herself now or she’d be useless all day tomorrow.

 

‘Well,  _ she  _ was very impressed with me, actually,’ Helena admitted. 

 

‘Oh,  _ she was?’  _ Richard blinked. ‘Forgive my presumption; most tenured professors in our field are male. Who was this then? What university did you undergrad at?’

 

Helena sipped her wine, thinking on her answer. It was a sticking point that came up occasionally, with Helena unable- perhaps unwilling- to admit that Cambridge had accepted her results from an advanced correspondence course and her eco work over the past six years in lieu of an actual undergraduate degree. So she simply shrugged.

 

‘It was in Russia,’ she lied again. ‘A small university. You won’t have heard of it.’

 

‘Do you miss it?’ Richard asked. ‘Russia, I mean.’

 

She needed no lie to answer this. ‘Yes. Everyday I miss my home.’

 

‘Well,’ Richard leaned back. ‘I’m sure one day you’ll go back with a good education and a good career under your belt. Your parents will be proud of you.’

 

‘They’re dead,’ Helena said blankly.

 

‘Oh,’ Richard looked at her. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise...’

 

‘No, well, it is not something I talk about normally,’ Helena explained. She gave Richard a rueful smile. ‘I am not what you expected at all, am I?’

 

But Richard shook his head. ‘Helena, you’re everything I expected, and more.’ He stared at her for a moment, long and hard. ‘Everything I ever wanted, too.’

 

She blushed, and he smiled. Quietly he asked for the bill, and when Helena pulled out her bank card to pay her share he waved it away.

 

‘I would never expect a lady to pay when I’ve invited her out for dinner,’ he said, with mock-importance. He laid his own card out, suddenly pulling her hand into his. ‘I’ve had a marvellous time this evening, Helena. Or should that be  _ Yelena _ ?’

 

She must have blanched, for he laughed and nodded to the bank card, still tightly clutched in her hand.

 

‘Yelena Orlova,’ Richard commented. ‘A beautiful name. Why ever did you anglicise it?’ 

 

Helena paled. ‘It just felt... well, I suppose I thought it would be easier to pronounce,’ she lied yet again. It felt like all she had done tonight was lie, the words slipping from her tongue like false honey.

 

‘Yelena,’ Richard mused. ‘What do they shorten that too, then? Lena, I suppose? Or Lenka, perhaps?’

 

‘No,’ Helena snapped, pulling her hand from his, and shoving her bank card back into her purse. ‘No, I was never called that. I never had a nickname.’

 

_ Linka,  _ she heard her Babushka’s voice echo in her mind, tired and worn.  _ Linka,  _ she heard Gaia speak, her voice like a rustle in the breeze.  _ Linka,  _ she heard a man now, his voice brash but calm, soothing her in the night.  _ Linka. Babe. _

 

Abruptly she stood, a spoon clattering to the floor as she did so. ‘I would like to go home now, please Richard.’

 

He did his best to hide his dismay, helping her into her coat and bundling her into a taxi.

 

‘We’ll do this again,’ he promised her. ‘I have a feeling I’d like to get to know you better,  _ Yelena. _ ’

 

When she walked back into her flat, kicking off her shoes and hanging up her scarf, she turned left to go towards her bedroom before abruptly and unexpectedly turning right, towards the living room.

 

‘Laura?’ She called out, but from her flatmate there was no reply.

 

She padded quietly to the television, flicking it on and then turning to the planner. Her heart hammered in her chest as she leafed through the recorded programmes, the blood pumping hard around her body when she found the right one.

 

His face, when it appeared on screen, was just as she remembered it. That chiselled jaw, the sandy-red hair, and those crystal blue eyes, still capped by a cheeky twinkle. Helena sucked in a sharp breath, feeling as though her lungs were too tight for her body, her head suddenly light and dizzy. She sank down onto the sofa, clutching at the remote control tightly.

 

He was sitting easily on the lounge, the muscles and strength she recalled so well poured expertly into a black designer suit. He looked perfectly polished and yet dangerously relaxed at once, all too at ease with the celebrity culture he now so clearly courted. Helena felt a familiar stab of aroused annoyance, that old confusing rise of both desire and disdain.

 

She wanted to kiss him and kill him all at once.

 

He laughed and chatted with the host, joking about his new show and purported veganism. When he made a quip about bacon being almost a vegetable, Helena resisted the impulse to throw her purse at the screen. But she’s quiet, her stomach in knots, when the host asked him about  _ a particular blonde in his life. _

 

‘No comment, of course,’ Wheeler waved his hands. ‘A gentleman never tells.’

 

‘But you have been seen in New York with her on several occasions,’ the host cajoled, the audience laughing in the background. ‘Including leaving your apartment very early in the morning.’

 

Helena felt sick, wringing her hands together and fighting down a wave of nausea.

 

Wheeler grinned. ‘What can I say? What’s the bigger scandal? That she was over to... you know...’ the audience almost went wild, the applause deafening. ‘Or that I sent her out in the morning to buy my waffles with non vegan bacon?’

 

Shaking, Helena turned the television off. She stood for a moment in the dark living room, her feet cold and bare on the floor, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

 

_ It serves you right,  _ she thought.  _ You’ve only yourself to blame. You should’ve let go of him a long time ago. Just like he let go of you. _

 

Helena clenched her fist, feeling her spine strengthen with resolve. She pulled her phone from her purse, dialling her voicemail and pulling up the only message she’s ever kept for more than a day. Or, in this message’s case, for fourteen months, thirteen days and eleven hours. 

 

She’s listened to it countless times, so much so that she knows the words and intonation by heart. But still, she listens again, knowing now that this will be the final time.

 

‘ _ Hey, Linka, babe... look, you aren’t returnin’ my calls and I’m gettin’ kinda worried here. If this is about that night... look, I thought we were on the same page and if I’d thought we weren’t I sure as hell would never have let it... look, I miss you, babe. I really fucking miss you. Just call me back, okay? Even just to let me know you’re okay. Just call me back and put this capitalist pig out of his misery, okay babe? Please, just...-’ _

 

An obnoxious beep, and he was gone.

 

Fourteen months later she hits delete, and makes it for forever.

 

Hurriedly, she tapped out a message on her phone.  _ Richard. I am sorry tonight ended so abruptly. Can we do dinner again? _

 

She then pulled up another contact. 

 

_ Kwame,  _ she keyed in.  _ Call me tomorrow? _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Epitomise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Wheeler POV, set about three years after the last chapter. Two more time jumps, and then this story moves to continuous time.

For what must be the twentieth time that day, James Wheeler tells himself that he’s doing absolutely nothing wrong.

 

It started over breakfast, when Trish, a coffee balanced in one hand and her portfolio in the other, kissed him good morning.

 

‘How’s your day looking?’ She’d asked distractedly, her attention on the work spread out across the breakfast bar she - no,  _ they _ , always they - specially imported in from Rome. The piles of paper and fabric samples were a welcome splash of colour against the cool black marble, and once again he wondered why their house was so monochrome, so devoid of fucking  _ colour. _

 

‘Hmm?’ The noise he made was small, nearly vacant, and it made Trish look up, her heavily made-up eyes searching his face.

 

‘Your day,’ she said again. ‘How is it looking?’

 

His pulse instantly picked up tempo, and he worked hard to keep his face still in the face of his heart’s betrayal.

 

He shrugged at her, casual and indifferent. ‘The usual. Busy.’

 

‘Oh,’ Trish continued to stare at him. ‘Well, maybe tonight we can grab a late dinner? There’s that new restaurant on Union Street. Italian, I think. The owner dropped a card at my office... I think he’s trying to get us onside. Nothing like a celebrity couple being photographed in the local eatery to get people through the door, I guess. Anyway, I...’ 

 

Wheeler listened to his girlfriend talk, nodding occasionally, his hand wrapped tightly around the white porcelain coffee cup she - no,  _ they -  _ picked up in Paris. It was pretty and dainty and far too delicate for his large hands, and he resisted a sudden urge to throw it across the room.

 

_ Get it together,  _ he ordered himself.  _ You’re only in a funk today because of- _

 

‘Wheeler? You listenin’ to me?’ Trish’s voice, high and tight, cut into his train of thought.

 

‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘Union Street. Italian place. Think they do vegan?’

 

Trish rolled her eyes. ‘You aren’t a fucking vegan.’

 

He shrugged again. ‘I’m the world’s number one celebrity spokesperson for the eco-safe lifestyle, and veganism is the number one cure -currently, that is- for deforestation, carbon emissions and land overuse.’

 

Trish continued to look at him, her scepticism written all over her face. ‘You still aren’t a vegan.’

 

He fell back in his seat, giving her a wry grin. ‘Yeah, but I gotta look the part. I was a Planeteer, for Christ’s sake.’

 

He berated himself for a fraud, saying the word. Because James Wheeler, Planeteer, feels like a long time ago and a very different man to the James Wheeler who sits today in his expensive Brooklyn brownstone, drinking coffee from a fucking Parisian teacup.

 

But Trish either didn’t hear the bitterness in his voice, or chose to ignore it, because she simply looked away from him and back down to her work.

 

‘Alright,’ she agreed, sipping her own coffee. ‘I’ll have my assistant phone them. Make sure they get some fucking tofu in or something.’

 

‘Thanks.’

 

They sat in silence, drinking their coffee. Wheeler couldn’t help but stare at Trish, taking in her immaculately styled blonde hair, the platinum colour startling against the grey of her designer suit. Her face was clear and beautifully contoured, her nails manicured and painted a deep red. Her heels were strapped artfully to her feet, lifting her petite frame and showing off her slender legs. She oozed a kind of effortless togetherness which still surprised him, because, if anyone knew how far Trish Wickloff had come in life, it was James Wheeler.

 

He’d been along for most of the ride, after all.

 

‘Hey, Trish, there’s something I gotta tell you and...’

 

His words were cut off by the sudden trilling of her cellphone, and Trish held up a hand to him. ‘Wickloff Interiors,’ she answered, in that sing-song voice which made him wince, even after all these years. He watched as her face went from bright to tense, and she tapped a hand irritably against the table. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, we cannot move the Roberts meeting to Wednesday. Absolutely fucking not. For one thing, I’ve had that day marked out on my calendar for eight months now - I’m picking up my  _ wedding dress _ , for fucks sake - and for another thing, the Roberts project is worth over two hundred grand to us and...’

 

And Wheeler tuned her out, standing and giving her a quick peck on the cheek before leaving the room. He padded upstairs to their bedroom, changing into an old t-shirt and his running shorts, before going into the home gym she - no,  _ they  _ had built. 

 

_ This is good,  _ he told himself as he set the running machine.  _ Keep to your normal schedule. You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. You’ve done nothing wrong. _

 

Not yet, at any rate. 

 

He’d run four miles when Trish came upstairs. She had her phone in one hand and her handbag in the other and was obviously on her way to the office. ‘See you tonight?’ she shouted, above the whirr of the running machine and the music from his headphones. He nodded, and she smiled. ‘I’ll have my assistant send you the address of the restaurant later. Nice shirt, by the way.’

 

He looked down, and in his surprise and horror stumbled on the machine, his legs struggling to keep pace. He jumped off, and panting, looked down again.

 

A sky-blue shirt, the fabric an organic cotton, a little faded, a little wash-worn, but still whole and good. The Planet emblem, stitched into the material, was recognisable, all too obvious against the breadth of his chest.

 

His  _ Planeteer  _ shirt.

 

He’d put on his fucking Planeteer shirt.

 

Lightning quick, he wrenched the offending garment over his head, throwing it across the floor where it fell in a sad heap. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm his ragged breathing, running a palm over his sweat-soaked face.

 

‘Hey,’ Trish’s voice was gentle now, and Wheeler looked up, surprised.

 

He’d forgotten she was there.

 

‘You okay?’ She asked.

 

He nodded, looking away from her and back to the shirt.

 

‘Yeah,’ he exhaled. ‘Yeah. I’m okay.’

 

_ I’m okay,  _ he told himself firmly.  _ I’m okay. I’m home, and everything is fine. _

 

But he heard the lie in his head, and almost wanted to laugh.

 

If he doesn’t laugh, he’s almost certain he’ll cry.

 

Because he’s not okay. Not really.

 

He hasn’t been okay for five years, two months and twenty-two days.

 

Not since the night he lost the Planeteers.

 

Not since the night he lost  _ her. _

 

_ *** _

 

He’d been to NYU a few months before, to interview some economics professor who’d written a detailed plan on how to combat climate change without destroying the livelihoods of thirty million Americans. The professor himself had been full of shit, a pompous, arrogant old man who cared less about the planet and more about getting his name in the press, but still, Wheeler had sat with him for over three hours, going over his plan.

 

‘It was a shame what happened to you and your friends, you know,’ the professor had intoned at one point, just as they were wrapping up. ‘Such a shame.’

 

‘Yeah, well, shit happens to a lot of people,’ Wheeler had shrugged, unwilling to revisit  _ that  _ particular topic.

 

The professor had leaned back, shaking his head. ‘Strange, we’ve another ex-Planeteer lined up to visit here in a month or so. Two Planeteer visits in one term... The University newsletter will be practically thrumming with Planeteer nostalgia.’

 

At that, Wheeler looked up.

 

‘Who?’ He’d asked, deliberately keeping his voice blank. ‘Which one?’

 

_ ‘ _ Your Russian friend. Doctor Orlova, from the University of Cambridge.’

 

Wheeler felt himself grow hot and cold all at once. Even if he’d wanted to speak, the effort would’ve been futile. His lips were inexplicably dry and his tongue felt heavy, suddenly too big for his mouth.

 

The professor had stared at him, confused. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? Doctor Orlova  _ was  _ a Planeteer, yes?’

 

‘Yeah,’ Wheeler finally found his voice. ‘Yeah, she was. Once upon a time.’

 

‘Well, she’s giving a talk here in a few weeks on climate change and its effect on bird migration patterns. I read her thesis and some of her other books. I get the impression she’s something of a genius, Doctor Orlova. She writes well about anything, and there was a rumour about your friend recently- just a rumour though, I should say- that when Cambridge was attacked by that  _ Wanna Cry  _ virus she personally hacked into their systems to stop it. She’s a woman of wide interests, your friend.’

 

Wheeler wished he would stop calling her that. His  _ friend _ , like they hadn’t ever-

 

‘You might want to tell her to tone down her political work though.’

 

The professor’s words, when they finally registered in Wheeler’s mind, made his throat tighten.

 

‘What do you mean?’ He’d asked, sounding more worried than he meant to.

 

The professor had looked at him gravely. ‘Her political work. Her criticisms of Putin and his government. She’s a big name and they won’t take kindly to one of their own turning against them so publicly.’

 

Wheeler had stared at him for a moment, fear gripping his insides, before he looked back to the papers before him.

 

‘Well,’ he finally replied. ‘I’m sure she knows what she’s doing. Besides, she never listened to me back then so she sure as hell won’t listen to me now.’

 

He’d gone home that night and, after making sure Trish was busy and setting his browser to ‘private’, typed ‘Linka Orlova’ into google. 

 

There wasn’t much, to be honest. Mostly old Planeteer articles and photos, which he clicked through quickly and with practiced indifference. There was only one photo he lingered on, a grainy image taken- if he had to guess- in Thailand. In the pixelated photo, he’s embracing Linka, her head resting on his shoulder, bloody marks trailing down their wrists. He remembers that moment. 

 

_ ‘They nearly got us, this time,’ Linka’s voice is hoarse with dehydration, blank with exhaustion. _

 

_ ‘But they didn’t,’ he shrugs, pulling her closer, relishing in the feel of her body- warm, soft and alive- next to his. She must be tired, or frightened, because she doesn’t protest. Just nestles into him, her fingers clinging to his shirt. _

 

_ ‘One day they will,’ she says abruptly. ‘One day they will be more thorough. One day they will not turn back. One day luck will not be on our side.’ _

 

_ He hates hearing her talk like this. He’s twenty-years-old and like all young adults, he feels invincible. He hates it when she reminds him of his mortality, and he feels downright terrified when she reminds him of hers. _

 

_ ‘We don’t need luck when we got these, babe,’ he reassures her, one of his hands caressing the ring on her finger. _

 

_ She sighs but says nothing. He waits for her to push him away. Waits for her to knock him down. Waits for the moment when this moment will end. Like all the moments between them inevitably seem to. _

 

_ But she surprises him. _

 

_ She closes her eyes and interlocks her fingers with his, stealing away his breath and a little more of his heart. _

 

_ In the background he can hear the other Planeteers. They are moving around, tending to each other’s injuries, loading the geo-cruiser. A few locals gather around them, gawking or helping, chatting amiably about the events just gone. Wheeler thinks he can hear Gi approach, her footsteps light in the foliage. He thinks he can hear Ma-Ti, telling her to leave them be. He thinks he hears the click of a camera, he thinks he can hear the cry of a bird. _

 

_ But he can’t be sure, because all he can really hear in that moment is the steady beat of his heart, joined with hers. _

 

_ He tightens his hold on Linka, feeling a wave of contentment go through him when she nestles in further, her hair soft on his neck. He closes his eyes, for once giving himself entirely over to the moment. _

 

_ ‘Babe,’ he whispers. ‘I got you.’ _

 

Wheeler licked his lips and closed the image. More determined now, he typed ‘Doctor Orlova, Cambridge’ into the search engine and sat back. And yes, now these results were interesting.

 

He learned very quickly that she went by ‘Helena’ now, the anglicised version of Yelena. And that surprised him, because if Linka was anything, it was staunchly proud of her Russian heritage. It had been one of her reasons for rejecting him, once upon a time.

 

‘You are American,’ she’d told him, ‘I am Russian. You think I should betray my people like that?’

 

‘Hey,’ Wheeler had grinned. ‘Anna Kournikova betrayed her people for love.’

 

A hint of a smile had crossed her face. ‘I am not Anna Kournikova.’

 

‘With your body? Coulda fooled me.’

 

Now she really smiled. ‘Well, you are no Enrique Iglesias then. Remember, I have heard you sing before.’

 

‘Just give me a guitar, babe,’ he’d leaned back, crossing his arms lightly. ‘Just give me a guitar.’

 

Helena Orlova was quite the academic now, it seemed. There was very little mention of her Planeteer work- she seemed to shun it, unlike Wheeler, who’d embraced his celebrity status on leaving the Planeteers, and used it to further his television career. But she’d written hundreds of essays and papers on the environment, ornithology and the impact of rapid climate change. All very good, all very worthy, all very  _ Linka. _

 

But it was the political essays that interested him most. And there were several of them, all deeply critical of Putin, the Russian government and the corruption she believed was deeply entrenched there. And under most of her work was commentary from the press, supporting her work and ideas but ultimately wondering if it was wise for her to be so vocal in her criticism.

 

‘There are calls for Dr. Orlova to be stripped of her citizenship,’ Wheeler read with increasing worry. ‘Though Putin- it had been heard- has dealt harder hands than that to those he deems to be  _ political insurgents.’ _

 

And that made his stomach clench with fear, his palms dampen with perspiration.

 

She isn’t his to be worried about, he knows that. He gave up that right five years ago, when he walked away from everything, including her.

 

But he’s worried all the same. 

 

He let go of her because she needed him to. He let go of her because he loved her. And he knows that part of him, deep down and hidden away under years of pretence and denial, loved her still. Part of him will always love that girl. 

 

And over the next few weeks, lying beside his girlfriend at night, watching the minutes of the clock tick slowly by, he came to a decision.

 

He had to see her.

 

***

 

The auditorium at NYU was full, and Wheeler had to flash his press pass just to gain admission.

 

‘Hey, aren’t you...?’ A puzzled ticket clerk began to question him, but Wheeler whipped his pass back into his pocket and shook his head.

 

‘Nope, sorry,’ he replied.

 

He turned away from the press seating area though, instead finding a seat in the back, cloaked in darkness, between a gaggle of undergraduates on one side and a throng of postgraduates on the other. He blends in easily enough- he’s only twenty-six, after all, and still younger than some of the postgraduates he’s sat beside. His youth, for once, seemed to work in his favour. He felt safer amongst the students, less conspicuous... less  _ himself. _

 

It struck him hard that he was hiding, and Wheeler, with increasing discomfort, tried not to think too hard about why that might be.

 

_ You’re not doing anything wrong,  _ he told himself again.  _ Trish has no idea you’re even here. _

 

After a long twenty minute wait, during which Wheeler squirmed on his hard plastic chair, the lecture finally began. A nasal-voiced professor got up to give the opening oratory and introduce their ‘special guest’, and Wheeler found himself sinking further and further into his uncomfortable seat, suddenly bombarded by images of Linka and the other Planeteers, appearing on a screen before him. Images of himself at seventeen, eighteen and nineteen, brash and smiling, seemed to taunt him, haunting him and hurting him all at once, and when it got to the point where he couldn’t take any more, where he seriously considered getting up and leaving- because  _ fuck this-  _ the auditorium abruptly fell silent and he had to take a deep breath, because  _ she  _ entered the room.

 

Linka, in her time as a Planeteer, had always been referred to as an ‘if only’ beauty. As in, she would be beautiful  _ if only  _ she would wear make-up. She would be beautiful  _ if only  _ she would wear her hair down. She would be beautiful  _ if only  _ she would smile once in awhile. Gi, who read all the fashion and gossip magazines she could get her hands on, would be indignant on Linka’s behalf, though the Russian would only shrug.

 

‘What they think about me does not change who I am,’ she would say. ‘They can epitomise all they want; it does not bother me.’

 

‘Criticise, babe. Not epitomise,’ Wheeler would grin, but secretly, he thought the press was crazy.

 

Because how could anyone not find Linka as beautiful as he did? She was tall and slim, with hair that encapsulated every colour of gold, the blonde changing with the rise and sinking of the sun. Her eyes were like the sea, flashing green in a storm, or blue-green when waters were calm. And her grace, her poise, her intelligence... everything about Linka did it for Wheeler. If he’d been a poet, he’d have written sonnets about her. If he’d been a musician, he’d have composed her a concerto. If he’d been a painter, he’d have slaved over portraits of her, knowing all the time that he would never quite capture the spirit and strength that made her  _ her. _

 

Fuck the critics, he’d always thought. There was no ‘if only’ beauty about Linka to him.

 

And nor did her beauty need any qualifications now. Wheeler inhaled sharply, watching her take to the centre of the stage, a microphone pinned to her collar. 

 

She’d grown into her looks, if such a thing were possible. He’d known Linka to be gangly at fifteen and awkward at sixteen. He’d known her blossoming at seventeen and lovely at eighteen. And he’d known her at nineteen, new to love and sex and romance, her body glowing for those awakenings. At every stage and at every age, he’d admired and loved her. And now, seeing her today at twenty-five and finally an adult, he had to stamp down a sudden resurgence of affection for her. Because there was a new grace to her movements that had not been there before. A new elegance to her being the teenage Linka could not possibly have possessed. She’d found a new kind of beauty in her adulthood, and he wondered what events- no, what  _ man-  _ had brought that out in her.

 

Whoever he was, Wheeler suddenly hated him.

 

He listened as she spoke, completely enraptured. Her Russian was toned down, and there was a hint of a British twang to her accent that pleased him. Abruptly, he recalled his eighteenth birthday, when, sleep-deprived and exhausted, he’d fallen asleep on Linka’s shoulder in a dodgy ‘Tunnel of Love’ in whatever God awful town they’d ended up in that day. He’d dreamt of them while passed out, seeing them older, married and surrounded by children, Linka once again round with his child. In that dream she’d spoken with a harsh, raspy accent- nothing like the lilting sounds that drew forth from her mouth today.

 

_ She dodged a fucking bullet there,  _ he thought bitterly.  _ No good would have come for her if she’d ended up with me. _

 

Her talk, as expected, was wonderful, drawing rapturous applause from the audience. Once or twice, Wheeler thought he saw her gaze settle on him in the crowd, but she just as quickly looked away.

 

_ She can’t see you here,  _ he reminded himself.  _ You’re doing nothing wrong. _

 

When the lecture hall began to empty and the lights were dimmed, one after the other, he hung around, his hands shoved in his pockets, leaning by a doorway. Once again, he thought about what he would say on seeing her, hoping against hope he wouldn’t look too expectant or ridiculous. When she’d stopped returning his calls all those years ago, he’d realised he’d been sent a message, loud and clear. But he always carried- still carries, if he’s honest with himself- a small flare of optimism, where Linka was concerned, and that optimism saw him through from seventeen to twenty, and then again, through the lonely years beyond. 

 

_ There’s nothing wrong with wanting to see an old friend, make sure she’s okay,  _ he thinks.  _ You’re not doing anything wrong here. _

 

And he’s missed her, after all. He’s really, really missed her. Losing the Planeteers, losing Hope Island and Gaia... that had been painful. But losing Linka had been like ripping away a piece of his soul and-

 

And when she appeared again, at the opposite stairwell to him, her arm was linked through that of another man. He’s distinguished and put together in a way that suddenly reminded Wheeler of Trish, and he stepped back into the shadows, praying that Linka hadn’t spotted him. Hadn’t seen him for the fool he undoubtedly was. 

 

The fool he’ll undoubtedly always be, where she was concerned.

 

He doesn’t call out to her. Doesn’t stop her in her tracks. What sort of an idiot is he, after all? What sort of a pompous prick, thinking Linka needed his help? It’s nothing but his fucking hero complex playing up, and he hates himself as he makes his way back to Brooklyn.

 

At dinner that night, eating vegan lasagne, Trish tells him that she thinks they should bring the date of their wedding forward.

 

And Wheeler can’t think of a single reason to say no to her.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is another Linka POV. See you soon!x


	3. Commiserations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy the Kwame/Linka dynamic. I think he might be my favourite.

She arrived home exactly five hours late. Climbing out of the taxi with a sigh, she stretched her legs, using physical movement to push down the unease she’d been feeling since leaving Moscow.

 

There had been ‘issues’ at Sheremetyevo with her passport. She’d been pulled aside at departures and taken to a vaguely threatening office, where the border police- staring at her- had rifled through her bags and paperwork.

 

‘Visiting relatives?’ One had asked her, his voice cool and detached.

 

‘Yes,’ she’d replied, just as cold. ‘My brother and his family.’

 

‘Oh. Your brother has a wife? Children? What is his name again? Your brother?’

 

Helena froze, unwilling to reply. But the border officer gave her a sharp smile.

 

‘They must be proud, to have such a noted celebrity in the family.’

 

‘I’m not a celebrity,’ she immediately protested. ‘I’m an academic.’

 

‘An academic, of course,’ he’d leaned closer, and she could smell the sharp, chemical cleanliness of his uniform. ‘Your papers are being closely watched, Yelena Mikhailovna.’

 

He’d released her then, escorting her back to departures, handing over her passport and emptied rucksack.

 

‘Where is my laptop?’ She demanded, clutching her bag. ‘It has important research work on it and-’

 

‘Confiscated for further investigation,’ he snapped. ‘Have a safe flight, Doctor.’

 

Now, back in Cambridge, she consoled herself over it's loss.

 

 _It’s not like they’ll find anything of note on that computer anyway_ , she told herself. _If_ _they_ _can_ _even get_ _through my firewalls, that is._

 

She’s not an idiot. All the really important files she keeps on an encrypted laptop that never leaves her office. But all the same, she continued to feel uneasy as she picked up her bags and walked to her front door.

 

Something was distinctly wrong when she stopped to look at her home. For one thing, the lights were inexplicably on and a quick sweep of her mailbox confirmed that it had been emptied. More than that, her curtains had been closed, and she was certain- almost certain- that she had left them open.

 

Nervous now, she turned her key in the lock quietly, opening her door slowly and peering down the hall. Almost immediately, she noted an overnight bag neatly placed by the stairs, a pair of polished shoes by its side. Instantly, her body relaxed.

 

Putting down her own bag, she kicked off her boots and shed her coat and scarf. Walking into her living room, she felt a warm surge of affection course through her. Because asleep on her sofa, his feet dangling off one end and his head off the other, lay Kwame.

 

She kneeled by his side, prodding his forehead with her finger. He smiled as he opened his eyes.

 

‘You are five hours late,’ he said accusingly.

 

‘And you are a day early,’ she returned with a smile. ‘My flight was delayed.’ Sighing tiredly, she turned and rested her back against the sofa, her head lightly touching the solid expanse of Kwame’s chest.

 

‘I used the key you gave me. I wanted to get here before you did,’ he offered by way of an explanation. But she only shrugged. She didn’t care that he was here early. That he was here at all was enough in itself.

 

‘Where’s Sam?’ She breathed, closing her eyes.

 

‘At home.’

 

‘Sam is not coming this weekend?’ Helena couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

 

‘No. We both thought I should come alone for this.’

 

His words were gentle, but something in them, a vague undercurrent of trouble, made Helena open her eyes.

 

‘Alone for this?’ She repeated. ‘Alone for what?’

 

With a groan, Kwame lifted his tall frame into a sitting position. He reached into his pocket and pulled from it a white envelope. He handed it to Helena wordlessly.

 

She took it gingerly, looking at Kwame questioningly. But he only nodded, gesturing for her to open it. The stationary was embossed and velvet to the touch, the address calligraphed on with gold-leaf ink. Helena had little experience of the finer things in life, but still, she knew expensive goods when she saw them. And it didn’t take much to realise that this weighty wad of paper was clearly expensive.

 

‘This is... how do you say it? Fancy?’

 

Kwame grinned, but the corners of his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes and instantly, just like that, she knew exactly what this was.

 

‘Oh,’ she exhaled, when she peeled open the envelope to find three pieces of folded paper inside, each scented with bergamot. ‘Oh.’

 

Kwame laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘You see now why Sam thought I should come alone.’

 

Helena fingered the papers with unsteady hands. ‘Is this one yours or mine?’ She asked, before another thought struck her. ‘Or am I not to receive one? Perhaps I am not invited. Perhaps he does not want me there and...’

 

But Kwame shook his head. ‘I brought in your mail earlier. There was one for you too.’

 

She looked again at the paper in her hand. It was addressed to Kwame, plus one.

 

‘Plus one?’ She queried with a frown. ‘He knows about Sam, yes? Why would he write ‘plus one’?’

 

‘Linka, this is a wedding invitation written in _gold_ - _leaf_ _ink_. Look how neat the handwriting is,’ Kwame smiled. ‘I do not think Wheeler wrote any of these himself at all.’

 

‘Trish,’ Helena said blankly.

 

Now it was Kwame’s turn to sigh. ‘Yes, I should imagine so. Are you alright, old friend? Linka?’

 

But Helena was too busy staring at the invitation in her hand, her mind rendered empty but for one thought: that this was a wedding invitation.

 

An invitation to Wheeler’s wedding.

 

She swallowed hard.

 

‘Will you go?’ She asked. ‘You and Sam... I mean, you and your _plus_ _one_?’

 

Kwame gave her arm a gentle squeeze. ‘Do not be unkind, Linka.’

 

She nodded, licking her lips. ‘Forgive me. But will you?’

 

Kwame shrugged. ‘I think the real question is will _you_?’

 

‘Trish will not look kindly on my attendance,’ Helena replied.

 

‘It is not Trish I am thinking of right now.’

 

She turned her head to give Kwame a long, hard look. ‘Do you think he would want me there? Really?’

 

Kwame appeared to think for a moment. ‘Why would he invite you if he did not wish for your presence?’

 

Helena closed her eyes again. She almost laughed. ‘Because he must. We were the Planeteers. He must invite all of us, or none of us.’

 

Kwame sighed. He stood, and Helena stared at him. She always forgot just how tall and imposing he was until he was here, dwarfing her tiny flat. ‘I am going to make tea,’ he told her. ‘I took the liberty of bringing milk. I know you have been in Russia this last week.’

 

‘Yes,’ she said, laying her head against the sofa again.

 

Kwame looked at her from the doorway, the normally steady warmth of his features furrowed with concern. ‘Linka,’ he spoke firmly. ‘It is the same for us. Either we all go to his wedding, or none of us do.’

 

Helena bit her lip. ‘Do you think Gi will go?’

 

Kwame shrugged. ‘If the invitation even reaches her, perhaps. When did you last hear from her?’

 

Helena sighed. ‘Maybe... maybe two years ago? You?’

 

‘Same. She sent a card when Sam and I married.’

 

They fell silent, both lost momentarily in the past. When Helena spoke again, it was with a rueful smile playing upon her lips.

 

‘Of all the Planeteers I had thought to stay in touch with after...’ she paused, ‘ _after_ the Planeteers, I never thought it would only be you.’

 

Kwame didn’t look offended by her statement. Instead, he smiled gently. ‘Nothing worked out as we thought it would, did it?’ He exhaled lightly. ‘Well, I’m going to make that tea. And when I come back, you will tell me all about Russia. About Misha. About why your flight- which, when I checked, arrived at Heathrow on time- was so delayed.’

 

Helena groaned. ‘Kwame...’

 

‘You will tell me, Linka,’ he said firmly. ‘No lies. You weren’t on that flight and I want to know why.’

 

When he left the room, Helena pulled herself to standing, going across the hall to the little office where she kept her in tray and personal administration. True to form, Kwame had placed her mail from the last week in a neat little pile by her laptop. Quickly, Helena rifled through it, until her fingers found the elegant wedding invitation, wedged between her telephone bill and an alumni magazine.

 

 _Dr_. _Yelena_ _Orlova_ was delicately inscribed across the front, and Helena frowned to see her name, so formally written, from Wheeler. She opened the envelope without any care for it's value, ripping the expensive paper apart and pulling out the invitation within. She felt a deep stab of pain that she momentarily indulged. Because this was Wheeler’s wedding invitation. Wheeler’s.

 

And it was scented with bergamot.

 

‘Bohze Moi,’ she whispered, pushing the pain away.

 

 _Yelena_ , _plus_ _one_ she found written inside, and that turned her pain into a muted kind of fury, because just as she knew about Trish, she knew- she _knew_ \- that Wheeler must have known about Richard. Just as he knew about Kwame and Sam. He’d reduced the most important relationship of her adult life to two paltry words, and if he’d been in the room right then she would’ve kicked him.

 

But she was honest enough to admit that she might also have kissed him too.

 

Moments with Wheeler had always been kiss or kill, she admitted to herself. That was just how they were.

 

It was probably how they would always be.

 

She sensed Kwame in the room before he had a chance to say anything.

 

‘I am not going to go to that wedding,’ she decided, turning to him. Wordlessly he nodded, handing her a steaming mug of tea.

 

She sipped at it thoughtfully. Wheeler could not possibly think she would go to his wedding. _He cannot have it both ways_ , she thought bitterly. _He cannot do what he did to me then expect me to live happily with his choices_.

 

‘Linka...’

 

‘No,’ she said, firmer now. ‘No. I wish him well, Kwame. I really do. I wish him many... how do you say it? Commiserations?’

 

‘Congratulations,’ Kwame corrected her kindly.

 

‘Whatever the word, I am not going. I will do for him what he did for your wedding. What Gi did for your wedding. I shall send a card.’

 

‘Actually,’ Kwame looked uncomfortable. ‘Wheeler sent more than just a card for my wedding.’

 

Helena stared at him.

 

‘He paid for Sam and I to spend our honeymoon at the Four Seasons in Paris. Three nights. He was very generous. And the note he sent... I think he wanted to come. I really he think he regretted that he could not- or perhaps would not- attend.’

 

Helena felt grief, just as raw as the day it first struck her, run through her blood. She paled, gripping the mug in her hand so tightly that it was a wonder that, just like her heart, it hadn’t shattered into a thousand pieces.

 

‘Do you still blame him?’ She whispered, and saw Kwame visibly recoil. ‘Do you think he still blames you?’

 

‘No,’ Kwame answered tightly. ‘No. I think we are past the blame stage now, Linka. What happened back then... rather than coming together as we should have done, we turned to grief and anger. But I am no longer angry at him. Just as I am no longer angry at Gi. Or at you. It was not our fault, Linka.’

 

‘I miss him,’ she confessed, and her admission felt like a weakness.

 

But Kwame only sighed, coming towards her and folding her into his arms. ‘I miss him too. Just as I miss Gi. And Gaia.’

 

‘And Cap,’ she added quietly, and felt Kwame’s arms turn to stone around her.

 

‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘And Cap.’

 

‘Did you ever tell Sam about...’

 

But Kwame, it seemed, was no longer in a mood to talk about the past. He kissed her temple, pulling away and motioning to her tea. ‘Drink it. And now, tell me about Russia.’

 

They moved back through to the living room, where Helena spoke warmly about Misha, his wife, her terrible cooking and their three boys. But Kwame would not be distracted, and after half an hour, he held up his hand to her.

 

‘Tell me about why you missed your flight home. I spoke to you at the airport earlier, and you assured me you were there and on time. What happened?’

 

She paused. ‘Would you believe me if I said that I was shopping in duty-free?’

 

He smiled. ‘No.’

 

She nodded. Taking a steadying drink of tea, she decided to be blunt. ‘They stopped me at passport control again and-’

 

Kwame stood, exhaling with frustration. ‘Linka... Linka, this is getting ridiculous. This is... what? The fourth time now?’

 

Helena bit her lip. ‘The fifth.’

 

‘You need to stop travelling on your Russian passport,’ Kwame ordered.

 

But Helena shook her head. ‘It is the only passport I have,’ she argued.

 

‘I’m sure the U.K government would give you a passport if you applied. The French government gave me one, after all, for my services to their nation and...’

 

‘That is different,’ Helena immediately returned. ‘Your home country is at civil war. Mine is not. And you work with African migrants in Calais... I work with birds and dusty old books of paper. The U.K government will not give me a passport.’

 

‘Well, what does Richard think?’

 

‘Richard?’ Momentarily, Helena had forgotten about her boyfriend.

 

‘Yes, Richard. He is British, is he not? What does he think? He must worry... Sam and I worry about you all the time and...’

 

‘He wants to marry me,’ Helena interjected bluntly, and Kwame stared at her.

 

‘What?’

 

‘Richard. He wants to marry me. If we marry I will be eligible for a British passport.’

 

Kwame stood, open-mouthed, his tea still held halfway to his mouth. ‘He asked you to marry him? Is that what you are saying?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘And what did you tell him?’

 

She shrugged. ‘I told him I would think about it.’

 

At those words, Kwame seemed to slump into her sofa. ‘If you do not love the man, you should not toy with him, Linka. Wheeler was one thing. Greg was another-’

 

‘I never toyed with Greg,’ Helena argued, but Kwame held up a hand.

 

‘I never said anything at the time,’ he said, his words slow and deliberate. ‘But I _knew_ Linka. And I thought it was wrong, what you and Wheeler did while he was with Trish. What you did when you were supposedly with Greg.’

 

Helena paled as guilt, stark and cold, struck her hard. She swallowed. ‘What did Wheeler tell you?’

 

‘Nothing,’ Kwame said. ‘He never said a word. For a long time... we all thought things were better between the two of you. The arguments had stopped. Wheeler dropped all the cheap lines. You were warmer. Gi and I talked about it, and we decided you had both grown up. That you both had matured. That Trish made Wheeler a better man, and Greg made you happier woman. Ma-Ti was there for that conversation, and he was so quiet the whole time... I started to wonder what he knew that we didn’t. And then we went on that mission- where was it? Norway? Finland?’

 

‘Iceland,’ Helena supplied quietly. She remembered that mission.

 

‘Iceland,’ Kwame nodded. ‘Iceland. We were staying in that village... we drank all that Bren... bran...’ he struggled for the word.

 

‘Brennivin,’ Helena said. Because yes, she remembered that mission. She remembered _that_ _night_.

 

‘You and Gi got up to dance... and Wheeler...’ Kwame sighed. ‘Wheeler watched you. The whole time, he couldn’t take his eyes from you. And I knew. I just knew. The man looked at you with absolute love in his eyes. And not the puppy love he had as a teenager. He looked in that moment like a man who knew real happiness, and at one point, you looked up to smile at him and I _just_ _knew_ , Linka.’

 

Helena was silent. For a moment, hearing Kwame speak, she’d been taken back there. To Iceland. To five friends drinking schnapps under the Northern lights. To Wheeler’s mouth, hot on her body, and his hands, electric to the touch on her skin.

 

‘He didn’t sleep in his room that night,’ Kwame finished. ‘He told Ma-Ti and I that he’d been waylaid by a friendly local. But that was a lie. He was with you.’

 

Helena nodded. There was little point in hiding the truth now. ‘Yes,’ she said, clenching her hands tightly so that sheer wistfulness would not be evident in her voice. ‘Yes. He was with me.’

 

With a sigh Kwame stood, coming to kneel before Helena. He took her hands in his, and rubbed her fingers gently.

 

‘Why is it I have an invitation to Wheeler and Trish’s wedding? Why is not Wheeler and yours?’

 

Linka swallowed hard, trying in vain to withdraw her hands from his. But Kwame held tight to them, his earthy brown eyes drawing truth from her like water from a well.

 

‘Kwame,’ she exhaled miserably. ‘I was not enough for him. My reality did not meet the expectations of his dreams. He wanted us to be friends, but he did not want us to be more than that. I was not enough.’

 

‘Nonsense, Linka,’ Kwame shook his head. ‘Wheeler adored you. He adored everything about you and...’

 

‘Kwame, no,’ Helena forced herself to be firm. She forced herself to acknowledge the truth. ‘Kwame... he left me. He ended it.’

 

Kwame’s face was filled with disbelief. ‘He ended it?’

 

Helena nodded. ‘He ended it. He didn’t love me, and he ended it.’

 

She closed her eyes, seeing - once again- Wheeler’s face as he dealt the crippling wound to her heart. ‘This has been fun, but it’s done now, you know?’

 

Once again, she felt that stab of pain, that torrent of grief and shame and hurt and embarrassment. Because under all her pain there was a good degree of mortification. Wheeler had chased her for close to three years. But it took less than six months in her arms and bed for him to grow bored and look for the next challenge.

 

She hadn’t been enough.

 

And to Linka Orlova, that had been a fatal blow.

 

And she’d decided then and there that Helena Orlova would never make the same mistake.

 

***

 

Later that night, when Kwame is ensconced in her spare bedroom and probably talking on the phone to Sam, Helena dumps the wedding invitation into her kitchen bin.

 

She doesn’t see the scrap of paper fall from the envelope. Hastily written, it is just a few messily scribbled numbers and words on a torn piece of newspaper.

 

A phone number.

 

An address.

 

And underneath, a plea.

 

 _Linka_. _Babe_.

 

 _Please_.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeler POV again next. And we also start to earn that ‘E’ rating...


	4. Prong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t even know if I know where I’m going with this fic. But this chapter feels right. Obviously, if you’ve read ‘Arm the Doors’ you’ll understand this is just my style, and next chapter we move to linear time.

_ She initiated their first kiss, on that day in Russia, making what he thought would be the the worst day of his life quickly into the best. Just when he thought he’d lost her forever, she reached for him, throwing herself into his arms and kissing him passionately. Her mouth against his was soft and warm, and so full of promise and love that even in his surprise, he made sure to remember every second. _

 

_ ‘This is it,’ he’d thought at the time. ‘This is how Linka and I begin.’ _

 

_ But when they’d returned home, things slowly crept back into their old pattern. He, the eager pursuer, and Linka, the reluctantly pursued. Wheeler, hurt, frustrated, and increasingly convinced that earning Linka’s love was- for him at least- a fruitless quest, became quiet and despondent. And so he chased her with a little less fervour, loved her a little less openly. And when he returned to Brooklyn to see his ill father, and came across Trish again...  _

 

_ Trish had been his first love, and his first lover. They’d been childhood friends, two kids cut from the same cloth of neglect and abuse. They’d started fooling around at thirteen, when Trish’s developing body ceased to be a subject of jokes for Wheeler and took on a newer, more exciting role to him. Trish was only too happy to welcome his messy kisses and fumbling caresses. They were both lonely and lost in their own way, and found comfort in closeness- however awkward- with one another. By the time they were sixteen they were fucking almost daily, Trish sleeping in his room in his parent’s fetid apartment most nights, and it was common knowledge across their Brooklyn estate that, one day, Trish and Wheeler would marry. Wheeler’s mother, Angie, liked Trish and nodded her approval to their neighbours. _

 

_ ‘Those kids were just meant to be,’ she said proudly. ‘You can’t fight fate.’ _

 

_ But then one day Wheeler found a ring, and with it a new home and a new calling and he left Trish far behind, without so much as a backwards glance in her direction. _

 

_ He didn’t mean to be cruel. He was just a seventeen-year old kid, floundering in life, who quickly grabbed at the saving rope that had been thrown to him. And besides, one day he would go back. He felt that in his bones with an occasional chilling clarity. _

 

_ You can’t fight fate, after all. _

 

_ But it was in his new home and new calling that he met Linka, and his eyes grew wide.  _

 

_ He’d never known that girls could be like that.  _

 

_ That girls could be like her. _

 

_ She was fifteen, with golden hair, already tall and lithe. She’d been a one-time gymnast, her body pliant and supple, but with soft, developing curves that made his mouth water. Her green eyes caught him and held him, flashing with an intelligence that was both brutal and fascinating. There was nothing, it seemed, that Linka could not do. You wanted a computer hacked? See Linka. You wanted music written? Linka was your girl. You wanted a book translated from Latin into Russian, English, French, Chinese or Arabic? Linka could do that, no problem.  _

 

_ The only thing she couldn’t do, Wheeler learned, was love him. _

 

_ And he tried. He really fucking tried to win her heart. But as much as she seemed to enjoy the flirtatious back and forth between them, as much as they both thrived off the undercurrents of sexual tension that flowed whenever they were together, she seemed to have drawn a line in the sand on ever taking things further. _

 

_ A line that cut deeper and deeper into his heart every time she drew it. _

 

_ So when he saw Trish again, three years after leaving her, it was easy to fall back into her bed and back into her arms.  _

 

_ There was a grim kind of comfort in having someone want him and kiss him and fuck him without reserve. A grim kind of comfort in having sex with one woman- good sex, enthusiastic sex- and only occasionally closing his eyes and picturing somebody else. There was a grim kind of comfort in recognising that Linka had been way out of his league, that he’d never stood a chance with her anyway. _

 

_ There was a grim kind of comfort in accepting fate. _

 

_ But then... but then Linka met Greg. _

 

_ And then, a few months later, she came to Wheeler for advice. _

 

_ She’d been nervous, winding a lock of her hair around a finger, chewing on her lip. And from under the geo-cruiser, where he’d been tinkering with the engine, he saw a delicate flush spread over her skin as she looked at him. _

 

_ ‘Linka?’ He’d asked, because he’d stopped calling her ‘babe’ as soon as he’d reunited with Trish. It didn’t feel right, using so sweet an endearment for her while Trish waited patiently for him in Brooklyn, counting down the days until their next weekend together. _

 

_ Not that he called Trish ‘babe’ either. That was always Linka, in his head. _

 

_ That would always be Linka. _

 

_ ‘Wheeler, I...’ she started, before pausing. ‘Bohze moi, but this is awkward. I do not know how to begin...’ _

 

_ He’d grinned. ‘It’s only me, your resident capitalist pig. Just spit it out.’ _

 

_ She’d nodded, and he pulled himself out from under the geo-cruiser and up to standing, wiping his dirty fingers on his jeans. He waited for a cutting remark about cleanliness from the normally pristine Linka, but she only frowned, lost in her own thoughts. _

 

_ ‘Lin?’ He pressed, and abruptly she looked up, catching his gaze and holding it. _

 

_ ‘Greg wants to... uh... he wants to jump in the bag with me.’ _

 

_ Wheeler’s heart seemed to freeze in his chest, and he stared at her full a full minute. ‘You mean the sack,’ he corrected her, his voice hard. ‘You mean he wants to...’ _

 

_ ‘Go to bed with me,’ Linka finished, but Wheeler shook his head. _

 

_ ‘He wants to fuck you,’ he said, knowing he was being unnecessarily cruel. ‘The bed is only optional.’ _

 

_ Linka chewed on her lip some more while Wheeler clenched his fists, because Greg? Really? That uptight, pompous ass? That preppy snob? _

 

_ ‘I was hoping you might give me some assistance in this matter, Wheeler,’ Linka finally continued. ‘You see...’ _

 

_ ‘Honestly, Linka? I don’t know how I can help you with this,’ Wheeler’s voice was tight, and he could almost feel his bitterness spilling out through his words.  _

 

_ Linka’s eyes did not leave his. They were soft, almost imploring. ‘We are friends, yes, Wheeler?’ _

 

_ He exhaled, releasing a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He had to get it together.  _

 

_ He needed to get over her. _

 

_ ‘Yeah,’ he agreed slowly. ‘Yeah, of course we’re friends.’ _

 

_ ‘And I trust you,’ she added, though whether she was talking to herself or him he couldn’t be sure. _

 

_ ‘Okay,’ he nodded. _

 

_ ‘And we kissed once.’ _

 

_ That surprised him, and he leaned back against the geo-cruiser. _

 

_ ‘Yeah,’ he finally agreed, bittersweet. ‘Yeah, we kissed once.’ _

 

_ Once, when he rather it was a million times. Once, when he wishes he were kissing her now. _

 

_ He sighed, watching a pretty blush creep up over her cheeks. Her hands shook ever-so-slightly, and her eyes flashed with uncertainty. _

 

_ ‘Did I... did I do it right?’ _

 

_ He stared at her. _

 

_ ‘What?’ _

 

_ ‘The kissing. Did I... was it okay? Was it right?’ _

 

_ ‘Jesus, Lin.’ _

 

_ ‘It is just that... that was my first kiss. And... yes, I have kissed Greg since then... but... well, it just has not felt as good as what kissing you did, and...’ _

 

_ And she’s red now, Linka. Red and struggling with her English. _

 

_ ‘I was your first kiss?’ Wheeler asked, stunned. _

 

_ Linka nodded, her eyes down. ‘Yes. Yes, Yankee. It was you.’ _

 

_ ‘I had no idea,’ he whispered. _

 

_ She shrugged then, as if it were no matter. _

 

_ But he knows Linka. He knows his clever, compassionate and infuriating girl. _

 

_ It means something to her. _

 

_ ‘Was it good? That kiss? For you?’ she asked once more, and Wheeler had to close his eyes. Because he was so close to pulling her to him and kissing her again right then, to pressing their lips together and banishing all her doubts, that he needed a moment. _

 

_ ‘It was perfect, Lin,’ he finally said. ‘It was perfect.’ _

 

_ She sighed. _

 

_ ‘You’ve never...’ he started, his voice awkward. ‘Umm... you’ve never had sex before then, I guess?’ _

 

_ It’s something he’d thought about and long suspected, but never something he’d ever thought would actually be confirmed. Not by him, anyway. Linka wasn’t the kind of girl to kiss and tell. She was too classy for that. _

 

_ ‘No. I was fifteen when I became a Planeteer. Our work doesn’t leave much time for romance.’ _

 

_ Wheeler thought quickly about Trish, before his mind tallied up Vanessa, Xi Ling, Sophie and that random girl from that bar in Tallahassee. He went to argue with Linka’s logic, before his mind caught up with the words she used and did a double-take. _

 

_ She said romance. Not sex.  _

 

_ ‘And you... umm... you have questions?’ _

 

_ She blushed hard again. ‘Perhaps. Not questions though. Just one.’ _

 

_ He slid down the side of the geo-cruiser, coming to a seat in the shade, before wiping at the perspiration that had built on his forehead. Somehow, he thought he might be sweating from more than the heat. _

 

_ Tentatively, Linka came to sit beside him. She was wearing a pair of overall shorts that rode up as she bent her long legs, and he could feel the heat of her skin as she pressed against him. She smelt so much like salt and sea-air and Linka that he found it hard to think for a moment. _

 

_ ‘I’m glad you trust me enough to come to me... but am I the best person for this? What about Gaia?’ _

 

_ Linka gave him a look of horror. ‘You want me to ask the spirit of the Earth about sex?’ _

 

_ God, no. Wheeler was mortified even just thinking about it. _

 

_ ‘Alright. Well... what about the other Planeteers? Gi must...’ _

 

_ But Linka shook her head. ‘Gi is in much the same position as me,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘Ma-Ti is too young, and Kwame...’ _

 

_ She trailed off, but Wheeler thought he understood. Kwame was like an older brother to them both, and they respected him. And the quiet, pensive young man had secrets of his own that they both knew he would never openly share. _

 

_ ‘Okay,’ Wheeler nodded, taking a deep breath. ‘Ask away, Lin.’ _

 

_ ‘It is just one question, really,’ she said, her eyes on the ground, a finger playing with the hem of her shorts. _

 

_ ‘Sure.’ Wheeler averted his eyes from her bronzed skin. ‘You know you can ask me anything.’ _

 

_ She inhaled sharply. ‘Should I actually do it? With him? With Greg?’ _

 

_ He stared at her, dumbstruck. ‘What?’ _

 

_ She stared back at him. ‘Do you think I should? Have sex with him?’ _

 

_ Immediately, a voice in Wheeler’s head went ‘no’. But he pushed it down, concentrating on Linka’s green eyes and the conflict he saw within. _

 

_ ‘I guess if you love him,’ he replied slowly. ‘Then yeah. But it’s up to you,  _

_ Lin. I can’t tell you what to do here.’ _

 

_ ‘Love,’ Linka mused, looking away from him. She said the word like she was tasting it, trying it over her tongue. _

 

_ He shrugged. ‘It’s nicer when you’re in love.’ _

 

_ She nodded, but her shoulders slumped. ‘Like you and Trish,’ she said flatly, and he grimaced. _

 

_ ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ he replied instantly, and Linka looked back to him, her eyes sharp. _

 

_ ‘You do not love Trish?’ She asked. ‘But you and she must...’ Abruptly, Linka bit her lip. ‘Forgive me, Wheeler. I prong too much and...’ _

 

_ ‘Pry, not prong, Lin,’ Wheeler nudged her arm gently. ‘And I don’t mind you askin’. Sure, Trish and I have sex. But I’m not in love with her. Not yet, anyway.’ _

 

_ ‘But you think you will be? One day?’ _

 

_ ‘Maybe,’ Wheeler shrugged again. ‘If I can get past something, then yeah, maybe I could love her.’ _

 

_ ‘Past something?’ Linka looked confused. _

 

_ Wheeler took a deep breath. ‘I’ll talk with you about pretty much anything, Lin. You know that. But don’t ask questions you maybe don’t want to hear the answers to.’ _

 

_ She was silent for a moment, regarding him thoughtfully. When she spoke, her voice was soft, her words gentle. ‘I think you might mean me, do you not, Wheeler?’  _

 

_ There was no point in hiding a truth she already knew. _

 

_ ‘Yeah,’ he gave a bitter laugh. ‘Yeah, I meant you, Babe, and-’ _

 

_ It’s habit, of course. The endearment is habitual, a byproduct from another time, and it’s been hard not to use it. But when it slips from his mouth now he sees Linka take a sharp breath, and he reddens. _

 

_ ‘Sorry,’ he apologised instantly. _

 

_ But she shook her head. ‘No. No, I have missed it... Yankee.’ _

 

_ She rests one hand over his, their fingers intermingling, and he feels his treacherous heart skip a beat. _

 

_ ‘How do you know it is nicer?’ She asked him suddenly. ‘How do you know love makes it nicer, if you have never been in love with one of your... um...?’ _

 

_ ‘Partners,’ Wheeler finished for her. He shrugged again, squeezing her fingers. ‘And I don’t know. Not really. It’s just something I’ve heard.’ _

 

_ ‘You should find out,’ Linka suggested, and then he did laugh, loud and heartily.  _

 

_ ‘Sure thing, Lin. You free tonight?’ _

 

_ He meant it as a joke... mostly. But Linka rapidly blushed, and he realised he’d monumentally fucked up by inadvertently confessing to loving her while also asking her to bed with him. He opened his mouth to apologise once more, but something in Linka’s face stopped him. Because her lips were parted and her eyes were hot, and he knows enough about women now to know that she’s not entirely adverse to the idea. _

 

_ ‘You want to do that with me?’ She asked, and his mind went blank. _

 

_ ‘Jesus, Lin,’ he whispered. _

 

_ ‘Sorry,’ she blushed. ‘I suppose I meant... before Trish. You wanted to do that with me, before Trish?’ _

 

_ He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. ‘No, don’t apologise. It isn’t necessary. You were right the first time.’ _

 

_ He feels, at first, nothing but dumb relief. Because for the first time in three years, the truth is out there and on the table. He loves her. He wants to sleep with her. No lines, no jokes. Just the truth.  _

 

_ He opened his eyes to find Linka staring at him. He caught her eyes and held them, and a frisson of pure heat went through him. Of pure want. And the feeling was magnified, bouncing and echoing as it was from her. Because she wanted him too. _

 

_ Of course she did. _

 

_ That’s what this has all been about. _

 

_ That’s what they’ve always been about. _

 

_ ‘Babe...’ _

 

_ But Linka stood as though he’d burned her, disentangling her fingers from his. And without looking back, she disappeared through a clearing, back towards their huts.  _

 

_ Of course she fucking ran, Wheeler inwardly fumed. She was always fucking running from this and how many times were they going to fucking circle one another before- _

 

_ Dinner that evening was a decidedly frosty affair. The other Planeteers, feeling the tension, eventually stopped making small talk. At first, Wheeler and Linka ignored one another, but when Wheeler broke a plate while cleaning up and Linka made a sharp comment in Russian, a dam seemed to burst. _

 

_ ‘You got a fucking problem, blondie?’ Wheeler snapped, and within thirty seconds they were screaming at one another. The other Planeteers exchanged eyerolls. _

 

_ ‘He’s calling her ‘blondie’ again. They’re having one of those nights,’ Gi smirked as they exited the common room, leaving the warring couple behind them, though Ma-Ti, turning back once, looked unsure. He couldn’t put his finger on what was different to him about that night, but something in the air hung heavier than normal. _

 

_ Something about Wheeler and Linka was heavier than normal. _

 

_ ‘You know what your fucking problem is, blondie?’ Wheeler’s throat was hoarse. ‘You think too fucking much about everything. Too fucking much. You treat everything like one of your damned computers or concertos or bird species... always looking for patterns, rhyme and reason in everything. Never just letting go.’ _

 

_ ‘Net, ty vysokomernyy, samonadeyan...’ _

 

_ Linka always reverted to Russian when she was worked up. Most times, Wheeler found it charming, sexy even. But tonight he only glared at her. _

 

_ ‘If you’re gonna insult me, do it in English, please Blondie. Oh, don’t worry. I’ll definitely return the favour. Nothing beats a Brooklyn insult.’ _

 

_ Linka glared at him. ‘If you are so desperate to talk ‘Brooklyn’ why do you not just call your girlfriend? I’m sure she will be more than happy to insult me also.’ _

 

_ Wheeler shook his head at her. ‘Yeah, don’t you worry your pretty little head about Trish, blondie. I’ll give her a call while you’re out fucking Greg.’ _

 

_ At that, Linka turned on her heel and fled. Wheeler watched her go, a sinking feeling in his stomach, because, yeah, that had been a low blow and- _

 

_ He followed her, calling out to her in the darkness. The night was humid but a cool breeze drifted over the island, and it didn’t take him long to catch up with her. He reached her just as she was about to open the door to her hut, and he grabbed her arm, stopping her.  _

 

_ ‘Babe,’ he whispered. ‘Babe.’ _

 

_ She nodded wordlessly, using her free arm to pull him towards her.  _

 

_ It’s frantic, that second kiss. Frantic and fast and desperate and charged, his hands soon holding her cheeks as he slipped his tongue into her mouth and pressed it against her own. Her hands moved to his hair, dragging over his scalp, before running down his arms and then back up, winding around his neck. At one point he broke their kiss, only to move his lips to her hair and eyes and neck and wherever else he can rain frantic kisses upon her skin. _

 

_ ‘Don’t tell you can’t love me,’ he whispered, clutching at her hair and waist and kissing her lips once more. ‘You can. You do.’ _

 

_ She nodded against him, offering him her lips once more, and he seized them gratefully.  _

 

_ They don’t break the kiss as he guides them towards her bed.  _

 

_ They don’t break the kiss as they pull their clothes from one another’s bodies. _

 

_ But Linka breaks the kiss when he slips inside her, crying out.  _

 

_ ‘I’m hurting you,’ he frets, brushing a stray lock of hair from her eyes. _

 

_ But she shakes her head. ‘No. No. You could never hurt me.’ _

 

_ She breathes deeply, and he starts to move, slowly, gently, kissing her again. _

 

_ When it’s finished, when she’s lying in his arms, looking into his eyes as he lazily strokes a hand up and down her back, he smiles at her, and she smiles back. _

 

_ ‘Was it nicer, Yankee?’ She whispers. ‘Did love make it better?’ _

 

_ ‘No,’ he replies quietly. ‘Love didn’t make it better.’ _

 

_ She bites her lip and he reaches up to run a thumb along the indentations. ‘Babe...’ he reassured her. ‘Love made it feel right. It’s never been like that for me before.’ _

 

_ She closes her eyes in pleasure, exhaling happily. ‘Do you think this was always going to happen, Yankee?’ _

 

_ ‘Yeah,’ he answers honestly. ‘It was always gonna be you and me, Babe.’ _

 

_ She smiles, reaching out to lay a hand against his cheek. ‘You cannot fight fate, I suppose.’ _

  
  


 

Wheeler marries Trish in a New York garden wedding with over four hundred people in attendance. 

 

His mother is drunk by the first dance, and she throws her arms around the couple, her breath sweet and sickly against their necks.

 

‘I always knew you kids would get together,’ she slurred. ‘I knew it. You can’t fight fate, after all.’

 

And Wheeler stops at her words, and wonders just what the fuck he’s done.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Measurement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was such a beast and I’m still not happy with the ending.
> 
> I was once stuck without a passport in Greece, and had to wait two days for a consulate to open.
> 
> Fun times.

Helena spends her 27th birthday in a Guatemalan prison, desperately trying to patch a call through to the Russian embassy, because an ‘anomaly’ with her Moscow issued work visa arises and she’s inadvertently broken several immigration laws.

 

After another two days spent in a squalid cell, eating watery rice and bathing over a communal latrine, she swallows her pride and calls Richard. She doesn’t know how he does it, she doesn’t ask, but another twenty-four hours later and she’s free, the British embassy also arranging her a flight out of the Latin American country.

 

‘You should’ve married me,’ Richard tells her when she calls him from the airport to thank him. ‘This wouldn’t be an issue if only you’d marry me.’

 

‘But it would not be the right thing to do,’ she says, somewhat impatiently, because how many times now have they had this conversation? ‘I do not want to get married, Richard. Not to anyone.’

 

It’s the truth too. For once, Helena thought she might marry  _ someone.  _ But that someone is now taken and off-limits to her entirely, and she refuses to settle for anyone else.

 

Richard is quiet for a moment. ‘I love you, for what it’s worth. I know it never seems to mean anything to you, but I want you to know.’

 

Helena moves the phone from her ear for a moment, taking a deep breath. She doesn’t love Richard, and she knows that her lack of love for him hurts him terribly. She isn’t proud of herself for this. But she does like him, and it’s easier to drift with him by her side than to drift alone.

 

‘I know,’ she finally says, pressing the phone back to her ear. ‘But I do not love you, Richard.’

 

‘You don’t have to love me, Helena. I’d marry you anyway,’ he replies, and her heart breaks a little for him again. ‘If only to get you a British passport, I’d marry you.’

 

It’s tempting. It’s so very tempting. 

 

But she refuses to sell her body and her love and her heart. Not for anything, or anyone. 

 

‘That would not be right, and you know it, Richard,’ she says, more firmly now, and she hears Richard sigh. ‘Why can we not just go on as we are?’

 

He doesn’t reply to that, and she feels a dart of worry.

 

‘Was it the same man again? The same officer?’ He eventually asks, his voice cooler, and she pauses.

 

‘Yes,’ she confesses. ‘Yes. It was Volkov again.’

 

Volkov... even just the name makes Helena’s temper rise. For the past two years, he’s dogged her movements. Everywhere Helena turns, there he is, tall, thin and beady-eyed, watching her every step, noting her every word. From that first meeting at Sheremetyevo, he’s been on her tail. She’s been arrested four times now on his orders, in countries where Russia still holds sway and no one thinks twice about throwing a pretty blonde to the wolves.

 

‘This is getting dangerous,’ Richard tells her, as though she hadn’t already figured that out for herself. ‘Come home. Stay awhile. The world doesn’t need you to tell them how corrupt the Russian government is. We don’t need you to hack into systems you shouldn’t for information you could be killed for knowing. You don’t need to do keep doing this, you know.’

 

She knows. But she’s going to keep doing it anyway. 

 

And he knows that too.

 

‘Richard...’

 

Abruptly, his voice breaks. ‘I don’t think I can do this anymore,’ he blurts out, sounding tired and defeated.

 

‘Do what?’ Helena asks.

 

‘This... this relationship I have with you.’

 

‘It is a good relationship. We enjoy each other’s company,’ she automatically replies, and she hears Richard sigh. ‘I thought that was enough.’

 

‘I thought that too,’ he says. ‘But it’s not. I want more from you, Helena. And it’s hard for me to acknowledge that it’s never going to happen while remaining in a detached physical relationship with you.’

 

Helena is tired. She’s dirty. She’s dejected and thin and only wants a hot shower and then her bed. She doesn’t have the energy for placating Richard right now. She’s not sure she’ll have the energy for that ever again.

 

And she’s not even sure she wants to.

 

‘Fine. That’s fine.’

 

‘Helena-’

 

‘My flight has just been called,’ she says simply. Goodbye, Richard. Thank you again.’

 

***

 

Helena’s 28th birthday is spent on the Finnish border, where she is pointedly refused entry to Russia. She stands by her rental car and calls Mishka, grinding her boots into the snow and shrugging further into her coat.

 

‘Well?’ Mishka asks nervously, and Helena bites her lip.

 

‘I’m at the border,’ she explains, trying to keep a positive note to her voice. ‘But they won’t admit me into Russia and-’

 

Mishka sighs. ‘I knew this plan of yours wouldn’t work, Linka. If they wouldn’t admit you at Sheremetyevo or Pulkovo there was never any way they were going to admit you at the Finnish border.’

 

Helena kicks at the snow again. ‘I don’t know how else to get home,’ she admits. ‘I don’t know how else to see you and Tanya and the boys again.’

 

Mishka is quiet for a moment. ‘In all honesty, Linka, I don’t want you to come.’

 

Helena freezes, her boot hovering over the ice at her feet. The snow is white-brown, tinged with dirt, and slush in places. Her eye locks onto an exposed patch of grass by the side of the road, the blades reaching up to catch the weak rays of sun, and she clutches the phone in her hand.

 

‘Mishka... you’re all I have left,’ she says, her voice imploring.

 

‘Tanya and I have talked about it,’ Mishka replies bluntly. ‘It’s not safe for us to see you anymore. We have the boys to think of, Linka. They come first.’

 

‘But Mishka-’

 

‘Linka, we love you. But your work-’

 

‘What of it?’ Helena asks hotly. ‘I’m an academic professor at the University of Cambridge. I’m an expert on evolutionary ornithology. What of my work, Mishka?’

 

She hears him exhale, long and pointed. ‘Not  _ that  _ work, Linka. You know what work I’m talking of. Cambridge let you use your research for them as a thin veil to cover your political activism, but it is a thin veil, and Putin’s people have seen through it. It was always going to come to this, Linka.’

 

Helena takes a deep breath of cold Finnish air. ‘If I could just obtain a false passport, I might be able to slip through the border undetected,’ she tries again. ‘Kwame knows someone in France who sells fraudulent passports to the asylum seekers at Calais. I could find him and-’

 

‘It wouldn’t matter. You are no longer welcome in my home, Linka,’ Mishka interrupts, with such an air of finality to his words that tears sting Helena’s eyes. 

 

‘No, Mishka,’ she breathes. ‘You are my older brother, the only family I have left in the world. You cannot do this to me... you can’t cut me off... you can’t-’

 

‘Volkov was here, Linka,’ Mishka says sharply. ‘He came to my home, Linka. Spoke to my wife. Spoke to  _ my children.  _ His threats were as thinly veiled as your political stance... if I keep in contact with you, I may lose my job. My home. My family.’

 

‘Mishka...’

 

‘You must understand, Linka. I’ve worked too hard to risk everything. Not even for you, little sister.’

 

Helena stares at the grass again, using her free hand to wipe at the tears that run down her cheeks.

 

‘Will you keep in contact with me? May I call you? Speak to the boys?’

 

‘No,’ Mishka answers, and she can hear the regret in his voice. ‘No. It’s too dangerous. I want you to delete my details from your phone. No emails, no messages, no visits. My boys come first, Linka. Volkov is a serious threat to you, and by default, to my family. This is the end for us, Linka.’

 

‘But it’s my birthday,’ she whispers pathetically, her throat tight.

 

Mishka sighs. ‘I know. I love you, Linka. I really do. And Tanya loves you. The boys love you. But we just can’t do this anymore.’

 

He hangs up, the silence both abrupt and deafening, and Helena looks at her phone in disbelief.

 

She’s alone.

 

Again.

 

***

 

Cambridge send Helena to New York on her 29th birthday. There’s an old sketch by Darwin in a library at NYU that is being loaned to them, and Helena- the poster girl for their ornithology and evolutionary sciences department- is sent to shake hands and pose for pictures. 

 

She doesn’t want to go, and stares glumly out of the window while Kwame drives her to Heathrow. 

 

‘Go out when you get there,’ Kwame suggests. ‘Celebrate a little.’

 

‘There is nothing to celebrate,’ Helena replies blankly. ‘It is only another day.’

 

Kwame shrugs. He’s older now, his face a little more lined. He and Sam adopted a Syrian orphan- a one-year-old named Haya- the year before and the little girl both exhilarates and exhausts them. Sometimes, when Helena looks at Kwame, with his family and his home and his job and the sheer happiness that he cannot help in his eyes, she thinks of Gi.

 

She wonders if Gi is just as happy. They haven’t heard from her in nearly five years now, and occasionally, when Helena allows herself to think of her, she feels both grief and hope. She hopes Gi is happy. She hopes Gi is well.

 

She hopes Gi has forgiven herself.

 

Abruptly, Helena reaches over and takes Kwame’s hand. She squeezes his fingers, before releasing them. He glances at her, half-amused and half-concerned.

 

‘When I come back from New York,’ she says, ‘I will come to Calais and visit with you and Sam. Spend some time with my little niece. We can celebrate my birthday then.’

 

Kwame smiles, a rare gift that invariably fills Helena with pleasure. 

 

‘I would like that,’ he says, before looking back to the road.

 

‘I admire you, Kwame,’ Helena carries on, watching the British motorway fly past her window, one monotonous road sign after the other coming and then fading from view. ‘You are so determined to be happy.’

 

Kwame nods. ‘Just as you are determined to be worthy, old friend.’

 

‘Do you think Gi and Wheeler try as hard as we do?’ Helena asks, and when she turns to Kwame, she can see that his face has hardened, while his hands grip at the steering wheel.

 

‘I don’t know,’ he eventually replies. ‘I just don’t know.’

 

‘I hope they are happy,’ Helena whispers tiredly, resting her forehead on the cool glass of the window. ‘I hope they are well.’

 

‘Wheeler called me,’ Kwame suddenly blurts out, and Helena stares at him, open-mouthed.

 

‘When?’ She asks in disbelief, when she is certain she can speak clearly, when she is certain her voice will be more than a broken husk.

 

‘About six months ago,’ Kwame confesses. ‘He was... he was drunk.’

 

Helena feels a dart of pain. ‘What did he want?’

 

Kwame visibly swallows. ‘At first, he wanted to reminisce. But after a few minutes, it became clear that he wanted to know about you. He asked...’ Kwame pauses, uncertain. ‘He asked some leading questions.’

 

‘What did you tell him?’ Helena asks.

 

‘Nothing he could not have discovered for himself. I told him about your work at the University. I told him about your trip to the Galapagos. I told him that you were well. I told him that you were happy,’ he looks at her suddenly, his face questioning. ‘You  _ are  _ happy, aren’t you, old friend?’

 

Helena shrugs. ‘As happy as I can be, under the circumstances.’

 

Kwame sighs. ‘You still have not heard from Mishka?’

 

Helena bit her lip. ‘No. I respect his decision.’

 

Abruptly she laughs, bringing a hand to her face and trying to muffle the sound. 

 

‘What amuses you?’ Kwame asks.

 

‘Nothing, really,’ she explains. ‘But there is something funny in that whenever a man decides to cut me from their life, I respect their decision. Greg... Richard... Mishka... even Wheeler. They all decided to cut me off, that I was detrimental to their well-being, and I had no choice but to respect their decision. Even Russia has cut me off now,’ Helena laughs again, but the noise is bitter and hard. ‘Russia has cut me off, and I must respect that decision.’

 

‘Wheeler told me that you were the one who cut him off,’ Kwame announces, and the laughter dies on Helena’s lips.

 

‘What?’ 

 

A sign for Heathrow Terminal 5 appears ahead, and Kwame pulls into the left lane. He shrugs, clearly hesitant.

 

‘Wheeler told me he tried to call you. After we left Hope Island. He said he tried to call you everyday for a month. He said you would not answer his calls. He said you cut him off.’

 

Helena stares out of the window, watching a 747 in the distance take off into the cloudy sky.

 

‘Linka?’ Kwame presses.

 

‘It is true,’ she says, her voice quiet. ‘He did try and call me. Many times.’

 

‘You should have answered him,’ Kwame lectures gently. ‘He was worried about you.’

 

‘He was not worried about me,’ Helena corrects him. ‘He was feeling guilty. He wanted Linka the friend back. He wanted Linka the colleague. He wanted to pretend that nothing had happened, that nothing had changed.’ She shook her head, trying in a way to also shake off the past. ‘But everything had changed.’

 

Kwame nods. ‘We couldn’t go back from that final mission. We all knew that. For some of us, it just took a little longer to accept.’ He sighs, turning the car into drop-off lane and coming to a stop. ‘Wheeler was as lost as any of us after that mission. Don’t hate him for the choices he made.’

 

She turns in her seat to look at Kwame, her face still, her body shaking with the effort to control her movements. ‘Kwame,’ she breathes. ‘Kwame, I have  _ never  _ hated him.’

 

Kwame hears her unspoken words, and reaches over to pull her into his arms, embracing her closely.

 

‘Don’t hate yourself for still loving him then,’ he whispers into her ear. ‘Loving someone is not a weakness.’

 

Helena feels her eyes sting with unshed tears. Unclipping her seatbelt, she drew in a shuddering breath as she gave Kwame a small smile.

 

‘It feels like a weakness,’ she admitted bitterly. ‘When they all leave, in the end, it feels like the worst weakness of all.’

 

Later, a kindly flight attendant, seeing the birthdate on her passport, brings her a small glass of wine once the plane is cruising at 43,000 feet. 

 

‘Happy birthday,’ she says excitedly. ‘Have you someone in New York waiting for you? Are you going out to celebrate?’

 

‘No,’ Helena answers, staring at the wine. ‘I am here to work.’

 

‘Oh,’ the attendant leans briefly on her armrest. ‘Well, New York is quite the city to have a birthday in. You never know... you might just have the best birthday of your life here.’

 

But Helena looks up, her eyes glassy and void of emotion. 

 

‘No,’ she disagrees. ‘No. That’s not possible.’

 

Because she already had the best birthday of her life. 

 

Ten years ago.

 

***

 

_ The more time they spend together the more careless they become. That first night quickly becomes every night, with one of them waiting up to sneak into the other’s hut once everybody else is in bed. _

 

_ She’s never known gratification quite like it. Wheeler, with an enthusiasm and a determination that occasionally makes her blush, becomes determined to eke every ounce of pleasure from her. He learns the lines of her figure with his mouth, the hidden curves of her body with his tongue. She’ll regularly fall apart in his arms, the rising sun painting her room pink and orange, while she clings to him and begs to him in Russian. He’ll smile at her pleasure and encourage her further, whispering into her ear and licking at her skin. _

 

_ ‘You aren’t finished yet, Babe,’ he’ll assure her gently. ‘And I’m sure as hell nowhere near finished with you.’ _

 

_ There’s a new dynamic to their relationship during the day. There’s a warmth there now, an openness, and it doesn’t take long for the other Planeteers to notice.  _

 

_ ‘You’ve both grown-up,’ Kwame remarks pleasedly. ‘Life is easier when the two of you aren’t at each other’s throats half the time.’ _

 

_ And there’s a truth there, because they aren’t at each other’s throats now. Instead, they’ve replaced hard words with frantic kisses. They’ve merged sexual tension into sexual gratification. They’ve taken frustration and moulded it into pleasure and happiness. _

 

_ Occasionally, Linka thinks Gaia and Ma-Ti might know. Once or twice they’ll be standing in the Crystal Chamber, taking notes on an eco-emergency, when Wheeler will stroke his hand along her lower back, sending jolts up her spine. Gaia, always the indulgent mother, merely smiles, ignoring the blossoming relationship between her children. Another time, while Linka’s cooking in the kitchen, Wheeler lets his pinky brush ever-so-slightly against hers and she burns the soup she’s making. Ma-Ti glances up, his eyes curious, but he says nothing. _

 

_ In fact, he leaves the kitchen entirely, allowing Wheeler to lift her onto the countertop and make love to her feverishly, the borscht a forgotten purple mess beside her. _

 

_ And so they grow more careless still. _

 

_ She’s swimming in the ocean one day, the water cool on her skin and the sun warm on her back, when Wheeler suddenly appears next to her, his eyes hot and searching. He pulls her into his arms, her back flush to his chest, before easing down her bikini and making her come, hard and fast in the water. When she can think again, when she can feel the blood pumping around her body once more, she wraps her legs around his waist. It’s then that she sees Gi, waving to them from the shoreline. _

 

_ ‘Bohze Moi,’ she exhales. ‘Has she been there the whole time?’ _

 

_ Wheeler merely shrugs, planting a kiss on her shoulder, happy to let the water disguise the movements of their bodies. _

 

_ ‘She can’t see anything,’ he reassures her.  _

 

_ And so they grow more careless still. _

 

_ They’re on a mission in Mexico, the sun hot and unrelenting, when they have a close call- too close- with Nukem and his cronies. They’re too tired to fly home when it's finished, checking into a seaside town where the food is cheap and the tequila even cheaper, and Wheeler doesn’t even attempt to make it look like he’s going to his own room. Instead, they lie in hers, rubbing salve into each other’s burnt skin and battered wounds. Wheeler runs a hand through her hair and she tenderly cups his cheek, while they look deep into each other’s eyes, quiet and thankful. They fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, too exhausted to make love but also too exhausted to pretend they want to be anywhere else. _

 

_ The next morning, Gi stumbles into Linka’s room, stopping dead to see Wheeler asleep in the wind planeteer’s arms.  _

 

_ ‘I just wanted to borrow some shampoo,’ she whispers, desperately awkward, while Linka presses a finger to her lips. _

 

_ ‘Do not wake him,’ she says. ‘He is so tired. We are all so tired.’ _

 

_ Gi doesn’t mention it again, and neither does Linka.  _

 

_ If Gi knows, then she keeps her own counsel.  _

 

_ And it only occasionally bothers Linka that they are all so good at keeping secrets. _

 

_ Yet, she grows more careless still. _

 

_ The Planeteers take her to Paris for her twentieth birthday. She’s always wanted to go, and she drinks red wine by the Seine while Gi giggles and braids her hair. Wheeler watches, and she knows he’s waiting for the others to go to sleep. He has that look in his eyes she’s come to know and adore so well... that look of love, of possession, of fierce desire. And she wants nothing more than to give herself to him entirely. In four short months she’s become addicted to his mouth and lips and hands and body, and she can hardly breathe for thinking about them sometimes. But more than that, she’s become addicted to him, and she knows, just like that, that this is love, real and proper.  _

 

_ There will never be another man for her, she decides.  _

 

_ It was always going to be him. _

 

_ It’s always going to be him. _

 

_ Later that night, he strips the clothes from her body and pulls her so that she is astride him. _

 

_ ‘Make love to me in Russian,’ he orders, and she’s only too happy to comply, moving her body over his until he’s a pulsing mess beneath her, his moans loud and exhilarating to her ear. _

 

_ ‘Ya lyublyu tebya,’ she cries out at one point, and she feels his hands dig into her hips almost painfully as he empties himself inside her. _

 

_ ‘What did that mean?’ He asks later, gathering her to him. _

 

_ ‘Learn Russian and find out, Yankee,’ she laughs. _

 

_ He smiles into her neck. ‘Good birthday?’ _

 

_ ‘The best,’ she grins. ‘I will never have a better one. I am filled with... what do you call it? Measurement?’ _

 

_ ‘Merriment,’ he corrects her. ‘Merriment, Babe.’ _

 

_ Suddenly, he flops onto his front, reaching across her to pull something up from the floor. His weight is deliciously heavy against her, and she squirms underneath him. _

 

_ ‘Yankee-’ _

 

_ ‘Happy birthday, Babe,’ he announces, shifting his weight and dropping a small, wrapped parcel into her hands. _

 

_ She stares at it. ‘You bought me a gift?’ _

 

_ ‘Nah,’ he shakes his head. ‘Better than that. I had one made for you.’ _

 

_ He nudges her, encouraging her to open the small present. _

 

_ It’s a bracelet, made of four strands of rope, held together by a small silver clasp. _

 

_ She kisses him. ‘I love it,’ she tells him, and he smiles as he puts it on her wrist. _

 

_ ‘This is the same rope that Greedly used to tie us together,’ he says, kissing the pulse point of her wrist. ‘Do you remember? That mission in...’ _

 

_ ‘Kenya,’ she finishes for him. ‘Yes, I remember.’ _

 

_ ‘I’d only known you a few weeks,’ Wheeler reminisced. ‘But as I watched Greedly wrap that rope around our wrists... it just felt right. And I told myself, then and there, that one day I would wrap that rope around our hands again, but under better circumstances. When it was our choice, and nobody else’s.’ _

 

_ He grins, showing her a second rope bracelet, larger this time. One for him, and one for her, she realises. Momentarily, she’s without words. _

 

_ ‘Wheeler...’ _

 

_ ‘Ya tohze tebya lyublyu,’ he then whispers, kissing her softly. _

 

_ For the second time that night, he’s rendered her speechless. He laughs at her surprise. _

 

_ ‘Yeah... I kinda started learning Russian the day I met you. I’m not fluent or anything, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a few choice phrases in my ‘win Linka’s heart’ arsenal,’ he shrugs. _

 

_ ‘Say it again,’ she asks, and he grins. _

 

_ ‘Ya tohze tebya lyublyu.’ _

 

_ ‘Again?’ She requests, biting her lip, but this time, recognising the look in her eyes, he shakes his head. His own eyes darken with desire. _

 

_ ‘No. This time I’ll say it without words.’ _

 

_ And for the third time that night, he steals her breath away. _

 

***

 

Helena’s voice is sharp and her hands clenched. ‘This is illegal,’ she says tightly. ‘You cannot just render a person stateless.’

 

The office in which she sits, a tired, grey and depressing nook of JFK, is filled with kindly faces. Understanding faces. Strange faces. The two immigration officers assigned to her case look at her with both pity and puzzlement, and she can’t bear to see either.

 

‘Look, Dr. Orlova... the Russian government revoked your passport and citizenship two days ago,’ one drawls at her. ‘You don’t have the right to travel. Trust me, if it were up to us, we’d have you on that plane and back to the U.K. We don’t want to have to deal with this either.’

 

‘Then let me get on the plane,’ she begs, but he shakes his head.

 

‘You don’t have a passport or the right to travel,’ he says firmly. ‘All we can do now is put you in touch with the British embassy. You’re ordinarily resident there. They might be happy to issue you with some sort of travel document. Lucky for you, U.S immigration are happy to let you stay for thirty days until you’ve sorted something.’

 

‘How kind,’ Helena snaps. ‘What do I do until Monday morning when the consulate opens? The Russians have put a stop on all my bank accounts. I have no money, no passport, and nowhere to go.’

 

‘Normally we’d have to imprison you,’ the other man offers reluctantly. ‘But, in your case, given the circumstances and your history, we’re happy to find another way. So, if there is someone you know in New York, someone of good character, we’d be happy to sign you over to them until Monday.’

 

She takes a deep breath. ‘I do not know anyone in New York.’

 

‘Oh. That’s too bad, honey,’ he gives her a regretful look. ‘I really didn’t want to have to arrest you.’

 

She closes her eyes. 

 

She doesn’t think she can bear another night in jail. She’s tired. So tired of everything.

 

When she opens her eyes, she nods at them both, taking a deep breath.

 

‘There is... there is one person I suppose I could try.’

 

The officer brightens. ‘Okay. Is he of good character?’

 

She gives a rueful smile. ‘Yes. The best.’

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeler POV next with a grand reunion.


	6. Overjoyed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I found the episode ‘Talkin’ Trash’ on Amazon, and I think Trish and Wheeler had a nice dynamic that, if he had never met Linka, might have played out further.
> 
> But he did meet Linka, and I don’t think he would have forgotten about her for long.

Wheeler moves out the day after their first round of IVF is confirmed to have failed.

 

He didn’t even want a baby, not really. But Trish, who decided they should start trying as soon as they came back from their honeymoon, was determined to have one. 

 

She bought ovulation trackers and pregnancy tests and lubricants that purported to increase the chance of conception, talking him through the process as though he was a fucking teenager and not a grown man of twenty-seven. 

 

‘Let’s just see what happens,’ Wheeler told her, scratching his head. ‘We don’t need all this.’

 

‘But I really, really want a baby,’ Trish replied, her face serious. ‘And this will make it happen quicker. Trust me.’

 

So Wheeler shrugged, and let Trish do her thing. He’d learnt, over the past few years, that it was easier just to let Trish have her way than to fight his corner. 

 

He’s drifting on Trish’s wave of upward social mobility and determination to succeed, he knows. But the ride isn’t particularly unpleasant, and he doesn’t think about the day it might all come crashing back down to the shore. 

 

But conception doesn’t happen immediately, or even over the next year, so Trish changes tactics. She starts feeding him supplements and making them both go to an acupuncturist as well as a holistic therapist. Twice a month he’s shoved full of needles while he takes so many vitamins that even his piss starts to smell of flowers. 

 

But still, nothing.

 

When Trish first suggests they go for tests, Wheeler blanches. He’s twenty-eight, and this all feels like too much, too soon. But he’s tired of seeing Trish cry every month when evidence of their failure to conceive surfaces, and he’s really fucking tired of seeing her sad face and woebegone eyes. All the life and joy and spark seems to have disappeared from his wife, and sometimes he looks at her and wonders where Trish- his Trish- has gone.

 

He wants the girl who spray-painted graffiti all over Brooklyn back. He wants the girl who stood up to an eco-villain with him, full of fire and spirit, once more. He wants the girl he passionately kissed in the Hudson, their clothes soaked to their skin, their hands slippery and searching, to return to him. 

 

Once upon a time, he loved that girl. 

 

Or at least, he liked her enough to marry her. 

 

And that’s a scary realisation for Wheeler. That perhaps he mistook adrenaline for passion. That perhaps he mistook admiration for attraction. That perhaps he mistook familiarity for fate.

 

That, just perhaps, he knew he couldn’t have the blonde he really wanted, so he married the next best thing.

 

Still, he drifts with Trish a little longer.

 

The IVF is punishing, a relentless routine of needles, hormones and prescribed sex. Whatever passion he and Trish once had recedes completely, and when tests confirm that Trish is the one with the problem, he loses a little more of her.

 

‘It’s not your problem,’ he reassures her desperately. ‘We’re married. It’s  _ our  _ problem.’

 

But Trish feels more and more like a stranger, and when he comes home one evening and sees her sitting at their dining room table- their ten-seater, mahogany dining table that they- no,  _ she - _ had imported from India, a bottle of wine by her side, he feels a dart of trepidation.

 

‘Is that a good idea?’ He asks, nodding to the wine.

 

‘I’m not fucking pregnant,’ she spits back, and he sits at the far end of the table, running his hands through his hair.

 

‘Oh,’ he exhales, and she gives him a bitter smirk.

 

‘I’ll bet  _ she  _ doesn’t have a problem getting knocked up. Probably has a fucking perfect Slavic womb to go with her perfect hair and perfect body and perfect mind.’

 

At this moment, the wave Wheeler’s been riding with Trish comes crashing back to shore with a massive swell, and he feels the air ripped from his lungs.

 

Because, in all these years, they’ve never once mentioned  _ her. _

 

‘I wouldn’t know,’ he treads the proverbial water carefully. ‘I haven’t seen her in years.’

 

But Trish shakes her head at him, her platinum hair perfectly styled even in her misery, and she nudges the bottle towards him.

 

‘Have some.’

 

‘Nah,’ he pushes the bottle back. ‘I’m okay.’

 

‘I’m not,’ Trish retorts, closing her eyes. ‘I’m not okay at all.’

 

‘What can I do?’ He asks, his voice a plea. 

 

She opens her eyes and looks directly at him. ‘Well,’ she says coldly. ‘You could stop fucking loving  _ her  _ for one thing.’

 

‘I’m not in love with her,’ he protests instantly, but Trish gives a bitter half-laugh and looks away.

 

‘You’ve been telling me that same lie for years now. Fuck, who knows, maybe you’ve also been telling it to yourself,’ Trish shrugs. ‘But yeah, you do love her. You fell in love with her the moment you met her, and you’ve carried on loving her since.’

 

‘Trish...’

 

‘No,’ she says firmly. ‘I’m fucking done with it. I’m tired of seeing you turn in the street whenever you hear a Russian accent. I’m tired of seeing you look all soft-faced and nostalgic when you hear her name. I’m tired of finding her work all over your kindle. I’m tired of pretending I’m what you want when we both know I’ll never be her.’

 

‘Trish,’ he says honestly. ‘I never wanted you to be  _ her.  _ I only ever wanted you to be  _ you.’ _

 

She looks at him with her glassy eyes, long and hard.

 

‘You know something? I think you mean that. You sound so fucking genuine. But you want to know something else? I’ve spent the last... What is it now? Eight years? I’ve spent eight years trying to be something I’m not in this fucked up and vague attempt to replace her in your affections. Because let’s face it, the Trish you walked away from when we were seventeen wasn’t enough for you.’

 

Wheeler opens his mouth to protest, but Trish shakes her head.

 

‘No,’ she says bluntly. ‘Don’t try and deny it. You walked away from me then for this glamorous life saving eco-systems and helping the miserable lives of others, and you did so in part because you wanted to, in part because you were asked to, but mostly because  _ she  _ was there, lighting your fucking way. And then when she wouldn’t have you and you came across me again, you were all too happy to jump back into my bed. But I still wasn’t enough for you.’

 

Trish reaches for the wine, pouring another large glass and drinking of it deeply. A ruby droplet sits on her lip and she brushes it away with her sleeve.

 

‘You stopped calling me,’ she says, suddenly accusing. ‘It was like a switch flipped. One weekend you were all over me and then the next you were conveniently busy. Kwame and Gi made excuses for you, but I figured it out when three months went by without a fucking sound from you.’

 

‘Oh yeah?’’ Wheeler asks, abruptly in no mood to placate his drunk wife. ‘What’d you figure?’

 

‘That you’d started fucking her. That she’d suddenly decided you were good enough for her after all, and like a good fucking dog, when she whistled you came. Probably several times, you were so hot for her,’ Trish suddenly giggled. ‘Like you were the bitch when really she was, hey Wheeler?’

 

Involuntarily, his fist clenched. ‘Don’t talk about her like that,’ he says.

 

‘Why not? She is a bitch,’ Trish shrugs, drinking another mouthful of wine. ‘But you wanted her all the same. So tell me, now that we’re finally being honest with one another... did you fuck her?’

 

She looks genuinely interested, and he reaches for the wine. At this point, she’s had enough. He might as well finish the bottle.

 

‘Yeah,’ he confesses, his voice soft. ‘Yeah. I did.’

 

‘Was she any good?’

 

He shakes his head, taking a long drink of his own.

 

‘That,’ he tells her bluntly, ‘is none of your Goddamn business.’

 

‘I’m your fucking wife,’ Trish spits. ‘Of course it’s my business.’

 

‘No,’ he argues. ‘No. For one thing, it’s all done with and in the past. For another thing, it’s between me and her. So, whatever role you play in my life now, and no matter how loyal I am to you- because I am, Trish, I really fucking am- you don’t get to own either that past or that relationship. And, if we’re going to survive this bullshit issue, you need to let it go.’

 

‘Yeah, like you’ve let her go,’ Trish mocks, and Wheeler shrugs.

 

‘I let her go a long time ago, Trish. Way before you and I became you and I for keeps.’

 

Abruptly, Trish stands. On unsteady legs, she stumbles towards him, pulling something from her pocket and throwing it on the table before him.

 

It’s a bracelet, faded and worn, four strands of rope held together with a silver clasp.

 

Instantly, Wheeler’s on his feet.

 

‘Where the fuck did you get that?’ He roars, although he already knows the answer. 

 

He’s been keeping it quietly in a box in his wardrobe. A box that is securely locked. A box he only opens every so often, when everything feels like too much and he needs to feel calm and balance again.

 

To see it in Trish’s fingers, to see it thrown so haphazardly on this fucking awful table, makes Wheeler’s heart quicken with anger and betrayal.

 

But Trish only laughs in the face of his fury.

 

‘Yeah,’ she slurs. ‘Yeah, you really have let go of her, haven’t you?’

 

Wheeler takes a deep, steadying breath. 

 

‘What do you want out of this, Trish? Cut all the jealous bullshit and just tell me what you want.’

 

Trish stares at him, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.

 

‘I want you,’ she says slowly, ‘to go back in time and choose me.’

 

‘Trish...’

 

‘I want to be seventeen again, and for you to toss that fucking ring back into the trash can from where it came. I want you to say, ‘nah, I’d rather have you,’ and not choose the life you did.’

 

Wheeler stares at her, his heart breaking.

 

‘I want you to go back in time to when we were twenty. I want you to kiss me again in the Hudson, and then tell Gaia and the other Planeteers to go fuck themselves. I want you to tell them that you’re done, that you’re staying with me.’

 

‘Trish...’ he whispers again.

 

‘I want you to come back to me, aged twenty-three, and not look so depressed because you’d lost her. I want to be enough for you. I want you to say, ‘Yeah, she was fun, but she wasn’t  _ you,  _ Trish,’ rather than it being the other fucking way around. I want you to marry me because you wanted me and not because you couldn’t have her.’

 

He feels a tear run down his cheek and he hates himself for showing such emotion. But Trish is also crying, her tears running full and free, and he knows that this is the end.

 

‘I want you to choose me,’ Trish finishes weakly. ‘But you never will. She’ll always be there in the background. She’ll always be the dream. She’ll always be the one for you.’

 

He nods. 

 

Because this is the end.

 

He’s drifted on Trish’s wave long enough.

 

‘I really wanted this to work with you,’ he says. ‘I really tried.’

 

‘Yeah, I know,’ Trish nods, and there is compassion in her face. ‘You were so determined to get over what happened with the Planeteers, what happened with  _ her _ , that you blindly stumbled back to me. And I was so determined to heal my hurt pride that you’d left me twice already that I took you back without really thinking about it. Everything I’ve done since then, I’ve done to try and keep you. To try and stop you from leaving me again... the career, the house, the marriage... even...’ her voice breaks, ‘even the baby. But I’m done now. I’m done pretending. I’m done with it all.’

 

They stand for a moment in silence. The quiet is as thick as the lump in Wheeler’s throat, and he reaches for Trish blindly.

 

For ten minutes, they cry in the other’s arms. 

 

But it’s Trish who eventually pulls away.

 

‘Will you go to her now?’ She asks, her voice quiet, the hurt ever-present.

 

He knows that, in this moment, Trish needs to hear a lie. ‘No,’ he whispers, squeezing her fiercely.

 

But she knows him too well, and laughs into his shoulder.

 

‘You mean not yet. You will. You and her... Wheeler...’ Trish stops and sighs. ‘You can’t fight fate.’

 

***

 

He goes back to his old apartment. His mother has retired to Florida on his dime, while his father is dead. The place is his.

 

He decorates his home just how he wants it. A mix of eclectic colours and prints on the wall with haphazard and bright furniture scattered about. He’s messy, and so is his home. Messy, fuss-free, and his. One day, when he’s finished work and throws open the door to his place, it suddenly hits him that he’s painted the walls colours that remind him of Hope Island. There are waves in one place for Gi, earthenware jugs that remind him of Kwame, and a forest green kitchen that makes him want to weep for Ma-Ti. 

 

But it’s his bedroom that surprises him the most. Because above his bed he’s put prints of birds, so that when he closes his eyes at night, Linka is always the last thing on his mind, and when he opens them in the morning, she’s the first thing he thinks of.

 

He decides he likes his home.

 

He likes his home a lot.

 

He drops the acupuncturist and holistic therapist in favour of a real therapist. Once a week he meets with Dr. Lambert, and he talks. 

 

He talks, and he talks, and he talks.

 

He tells Dr. Lambert all about his parents, about his drunk-ass mother and abusive father.

 

He tells Dr. Lambert about Trish, about the girl who was meant to be ‘the one’ until he actually met ‘the one’. 

 

‘It should’ve been the perfect story, you know,’ he explains. ‘Me, the bad kid made good, and her, my childhood sweetheart turned bad. We met again and had this great adventure. We saved each other’s lives and then kissed in the fucking Hudson. It was the perfect story,’ he looks up, his eyes sad. ‘So why didn’t it have the perfect ending? Why did we end like this?’

 

Dr. Lambert considers him. ‘Well, you had one perfect story with her. How many did you have with other women?’ 

 

Hundreds, he thinks, immediately picturing Linka. Maybe thousands. He can’t think of a moment with her that wasn’t perfect.

 

Except, perhaps, for the last ones.

 

So, then they talk about Ma-Ti. 

 

They talk about blame.

 

They talk about guilt.

 

For a long time, they discuss his hero complex.

 

And then, eventually, they discuss Linka. At first, he’s tentative to even mention her name. The two syllables feel almost wrong on his lips. He’s hidden her and everything about her away for so long. But, after some gentle coaxing from Dr. Lambert, he soon opens up. 

 

Wheeler’s surprised by how cathartic and healing it is to talk about her freely, to think about her and remember her, without fear of discovery or recriminations. He laughs and he smiles and he has bleak moments recalling his time with her. Dr. Lambert lets him talk, and then, when he falls silent, leans towards him.

 

‘You’re a good man, James. And you’re a worthy one. You should let yourself be open to happiness again, and I don’t- not necessarily- mean with Linka, or in any other relationship.’

 

A year after his divorce, and he’s feeling good. Probably the best he’s felt in years. He changes the tone of his show, making it more serious and less irreverent. He exercises and eats well. He’s still not a vegan, but he’s given up red meat so there’s less guilt there too.

 

He’s realised that he was a mess of contradictions. A perfect storm of conflicting feelings. Confident but guilt-stricken. Proud but uncertain. Passionate but repressed. 

 

He indulges his feelings a little more now.

 

He’s no longer hiding behind another person, or a false front of indifference.

 

He tries calling Gi, but the last number she left with him no longer rings. A search on the internet reveals nothing, and he sighs as he puts down his iPad.

 

Maybe he’s just not meant to be in touch with her. Maybe he’ll never see her again.

 

And maybe, while that’s sad, it’s okay.

 

He calls Kwame, who does answer. He apologises for his last phone call, over a year ago. He apologises for not calling more often, for letting them drift apart.

 

But when Kwame replies, it’s with warmth in his voice. And so they talk. For an hour, they talk.

 

And Wheeler doesn’t ask about Linka once. 

 

This call is about Kwame. About the man he once thought of as a brother. 

 

And it’s good to say goodbye to him, and know that it won’t be for long.

 

He tries dating, but his heart’s not really in it. He misses sex, but not enough to indulge in a one-night-stand, like he used to. Besides, it’s easy to admit now that he doesn’t miss sex so much as sex with a particular person. 

 

All in all, when Wheeler wakes in the morning, he’s happy. When he sleeps at night, it’s without guilt. He no longer flinches when people mention the Planeteers. And when he remembers Ma-Ti, he thinks of the good times, and not the last time.

 

One night, around eighteen months after Trish, he orders pizza. 

 

Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at his door.

 

And when he answers it, he drops the soda he’s holding.

 

Because it’s Linka.

 

Linka.

 

Here, at his door.

 

He stares at her for a moment, his mouth open.

 

‘James Wheeler?’ The gruff voice of a man interrupts the tumultuous turning of his mind, and for the first time, Wheeler notices two things. One, that Linka is in handcuffs. And two, that she’s accompanied by two hard-faced police officers.

 

He tears his eyes away from her to look at them. 

 

‘Yeah,’ he says, his voice thick. ‘Yeah, that’s me.’

 

‘I think we should talk,’ the officer tells him, and Wheeler stands aside, motioning them in.

 

Linka says nothing, her head down. 

 

They sit in his living room, while the officers discuss Linka with him. She’s still quiet, sitting with her head down, and Wheeler keeps stealing glances at her. 

 

She’s really there.

 

Linka. In his apartment.

 

He doesn’t really take in what they tell him. Something about her passport. Something about a consulate. He signs a stack of papers for her anyway with shaking fingers, and before he knows it, she’s uncuffed and he’s showing the officers to the door, shaking their hands.

 

When he goes back into the living room, Linka is standing.

 

She looks at him with fearful green eyes.

 

‘If I had anywhere else to go, James...’ she begins, but he shakes his head.

 

‘No,’ he says, walking towards her. ‘No, come here.’

 

He folds her into his arms, breathing deeply. She’s stiff and uncertain against him, but he wraps his arms around her firmly.

 

‘I never thought I’d see you again, Babe,’ he tells her. ‘God, it’s good to know I was wrong.’

 

He hugs her tightly, and he feels her soften in his arms. 

 

‘James,’ she whispers. ‘I am sorry. I am feeling a little... um... overjoyed right now.’

 

He can hear the trepidation in her voice.

 

‘Nah,’ he whispers back. ‘You mean overwhelmed, babe.’

 

‘No,’ she says, resting her weight against him, her fingers brushing against his shirt. It bothers him how slight and thin she feels. ‘No. I meant what I said the first time.’

 

Something a little like joy runs through him. ‘Babe,’ he kisses the top of her head, holding her even closer. ‘You’re gonna be okay. I got you.’

It’s Linka. 

 

Here, and with him again.

 

‘I got you,’ he says again. ‘I got you.’

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some truths are about to come crawling out next chapter.


	7. Democratic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... there’s about 16,000 words of them just talking and getting their act together. This is the first chapter of that 16,000. 
> 
> This fic is probably the most angsty one I’ve ever written. Who knew a 90’s cartoon about saving the planet could inspire such angst?

Somewhere, a buzzer sounds. 

 

Pressed into the warmth of Wheeler’s firm and unshakable chest, Helena hardly registers the noise at first. But when it sounds again, and then a third time, by now a continuous shrill, Wheeler lets her go. 

 

He doesn’t want to, she knows. She can feel his reluctance to be apart from her in the taut lines of his body and the dark intensity of his eyes.

 

‘I ordered pizza,’ he tells her, his voice deep. She’d forgotten just what that voice could do to her, and she nods, momentarily unable to speak. ‘I have to go and get it, pay the guy at least,’ Wheeler carries on. Abruptly, unexpectedly, he runs the pad of his thumb over the soft flesh of her bottom lip. ‘Just... just stay right here, okay?’ There’s a hesitance, an uncertainty to his plea. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he asks her. ‘Promise me you won’t go anywhere.’

 

‘ _ Net,’ _ she whispers, the Russian slipping from her tongue in her dazed and bewildered state. She immediately flushes, shaking her head. She hates it when her English isn’t perfect. ‘I mean...’

 

But Wheeler surprises her. He embraces her again, squeezing her against him.

 

‘You can talk Russian all you want here, Babe. It’s not like I’m grading your English on a curve or anything.’

 

He lets her go again, looking at her one last time before he disappears into the hall. 

 

She uses his absence to take a look at his living room. She’s been in this apartment before, once, a long time ago, just after his father died, and just before Ma-Ti. It feels like a million years ago, even though she can still remember, with blinding clarity, the wet warmth of her shirt from his tears, and the feel of him against her in the night, gripping her fiercely as he made love to her, begging her to never leave him all the while.

 

She hardly recognises the place now though. Back then it had been damp and colourless, with dirty windows, a mouldy kitchen and the ever-present smell of booze in the air. But now? Now it’s colourful and clean, with new windows, new carpets, and new furniture. He’s torn down the wall that once stood between the kitchen and living room, and the open-plan space is pleasant and warm. She would never have thought of Wheeler as being the kind of man to make a good home, but here she is, standing in the very proof that he is.

 

When he returns, he’s holding four pizza boxes that he immediately puts onto the coffee table. He stares at her, unmoving for a moment, and she swallows uneasily.

 

‘You are staring at me,’ she says timidly, and he nods, unapologetic.

 

‘Just taking my fill,’ he explains, with a wry grin. ‘I still can’t believe you’re here. I thought I’d come back in here and find the room empty, like waking from a dream or something,’ the smile suddenly dropped from his lips, and his eyes softened. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ 

 

She blushes, but he doesn’t look away from her. Abruptly awkward, she breaks their gaze, nodding to the pizza boxes on the table before her.

 

‘This is a lot of food for one man.’

 

Now he does look embarrassed, running a hand along the back of his neck, uncertain and almost shy. ‘Yeah, so I wasn’t expecting company,’ he confesses. ‘So, I paid the delivery guy triple for every pizza he had on his bike.’

 

‘You bought other people’s food?’ She asks in disbelief.

 

‘It sounds really bad when you say it like that. But, in my defence, I didn’t know what you wanted and... and...’ he trailed off with a sigh. ‘Look, I’m still a little in shock here. I haven’t seen you in... what? A decade? And now you’re here, in New York, in  _ my apartment _ and I’m struggling to process that, okay?’

 

‘I am sorry,’ she says quickly, suddenly mortified. ‘If I had anywhere else to go, I would not have intruded upon you, but...’

 

In a heartbeat, Wheeler is back by her side, and once again she’s enveloped into the warm safety of his arms. ‘Don’t,’ he says fiercely, ‘don’t do that. Don’t apologise. For one thing, you aren’t intruding upon me. You can drive me crazy, you can wind me up something awful and you can be a downright pain in my ass, but one thing you can never do is intrude upon me. You’re always welcome in my home, Babe. I want to be the person you come to when things get rough. I want to be the man you rely on. I’ve always wanted to be that man.’

 

She nods against him, and he steps back, looking at her intently.

 

‘Eat some pizza, okay?’ He asks her. ‘Please. You’re really thin. Too thin. Why are you so thin, Babe?’

 

She sits on the edge of his sofa, uncomfortable and on edge, staring at the pizza boxes. She can feel Wheeler’s eyes upon her, intense and searching.

 

‘I work,’ she shrugs, but Wheeler shakes his head at her, clearly unimpressed.

 

‘No,’ he says. ‘No, I work. Whatever you’ve been doing... it ain’t just work, sweetheart, if it’s got you thin as a rake, in cuffs and on my doorstep. Not that I’m complainin’, not even close,’ he says, catching the sudden fire of argument in her eyes. ‘Seeing you in cuffs always was a fantasy of mine.’

 

She laughs, abruptly and high, and he grins. 

 

‘Eat some pizza,’ he says, opening the first box, before closing it just as quickly. ‘Fuck, it’s pineapple. Morons. Sorry, Babe. Maybe box number two will be more promising.’

 

But Helena shook her head. 

 

‘I do not mind pineapple. It is meat I do not eat.’

 

‘Yeah, I remember,’ he mutters, digging through the boxes. When he comes to the final box, he gives a shout of triumph. ‘Vegetarian special,’ he tells her with something like glee, handing her a slice. The pizza is already cool, the cheese congealing, and she looks at it sceptically. 

 

‘Babe,’ she hears a pleading note to Wheeler’s voice. ‘Babe, please eat something. I promise that tomorrow I’ll take you to the best restaurant in Brooklyn, or the nearest health-store for quinoa or organic bean curd or whatever, just, please, eat something tonight. If only to make me happy, okay?’

 

She sighs, giving the pizza an explorative nibble. Wheeler’s face relaxes as he watches her eat, and he picks up a slice himself.

 

‘Tomorrow,’ he says abruptly, ‘tomorrow you’re gonna tell me why your passport has been cancelled by the Russian government, okay? Tomorrow, you and me are gonna talk. But tonight, I need you to relax a little, okay, Babe? No hard questions tonight. No hard talks. I’m your friend here, Linka, first and foremost. I know it’s been awhile, but I want you to forget everything else and concentrate on that, okay?’

 

She nods.

 

For a few minutes, they eat in silence. She mainly keeps her eyes on the floor, but she knows Wheeler is watching her. She’s always been able to tell when he’s looking at her, and déjà vu, cold and clear, suddenly floods her body.

 

_ She’s sixteen, lying on the beach at Hope Island, and she turns on her towel to see Wheeler by the shoreline, looking at her hotly. His gaze rests on the long length of her legs, and she adjusts them, suddenly aware that she wants to look her best for him while hating herself for feeling that way all at once.  _

 

_ She’s seventeen, hot and sticky and working tirelessly to fill care packages for the victims of a hurricane in Honduras. Her curls are errant in the humidity and she stops for a moment to brush a straying lock behind her ear. But no sooner has her finger left her hair than she has a feeling of being watched, and she turns to see Wheeler across the room, staring at her. Momentarily, she allows herself to stare back, and he licks his lips, desire written all over his face. Looking at him looking at her, she feels a sudden flare of heat herself, and she turns away, back to the box before her, uncertain and confused. _

 

_ She’s eighteen, running from an explosion, the noise deafening and disorientating. She falls, catching her shirt on a sharp piece of glass, the garment ripping as she pulls herself up and continues to run. Later, she’s holding the scraps of fabric up, one shoulder bare and her back exposed, when she feels his eyes upon her. She glances at him over her shoulder, and catches his gaze. She’s not afraid to look at him these days, in fact, she almost desires his attention, and she doesn’t look away, not even when he steps towards her, running a finger down the curve of her spine. Not even when he pulls his own shirt over his head, putting it over her own and covering her once more. Not even when he leans towards her, his breath warm on her ear, and tells her that her clothing should rip more often. _

 

_ She’s nineteen, and they’ve just helped extinguish a small forest fire in Canada. She’s clean and showered, her hair freshly washed, and she’s wearing a tea-dress Gi found in a local shop, paisley-printed, old-fashioned and awful. But at least it doesn’t smell of smoke and ash, and she’s glad of it when one of the local firemen- she can’t remember his name- stops by their hotel to thank them personally for their help. He chats with her for longer than strictly necessary, and Gi stands behind them, smirking and making encouraging gestures. But it’s Wheeler she’s most concerned about, sensing him watching her from the doorway of the room. Later that night, when they meet outside, he drags her into the nearby woods and fucks her hard against a tree, pushing up the paisley dress and holding her hips with a bruising grip. It’s the roughest he’s ever been with her, and she knows he wants to leave marks on her body. A scratch here, a handprint there, a bite or two across her skin. Something, anything, to prove that he was there and she is his.  _

 

_ As if she could ever be anyone else’s. _

 

‘You are staring at me again,’ she says, and he shrugs. 

 

‘So, sue me,’ he tells her. ‘I haven’t seen you in ten years. I’m gonna stare at you a lot over the next few days and you’re just going to have to put up with it. I’ve got a signed document from the governor of New York saying that you legally have to stick by my side for the foreseeable future, and I’m gonna use it,’ he grins at her. ‘Makes me kinda sorry I didn’t vote for the guy now.’

 

She smiles back, but puts down the remainder of her slice of pizza. Wheeler’s eyes flash with disappointment, and she clears her throat.

 

‘May I have a drink?’ She asks, ultra polite, and Wheeler jumps up with a start.

 

‘Fuck, I’m the worst host ever. Yes, of course, you can. You can have whatever you want. Water? Soda? Beer?’

 

‘Do you have vodka?’ She asks, and Wheeler grins. There are faint lines by his eyes that crease when he smiles these days, and she decides that she likes them.

 

‘Vodka? Yeah, actually, I do. In need of a hard drink, are we Babe? Wouldn’t surprise me, after the day you’ve had.’

 

She shakes her head. ‘No, not really. I just want a small mouthful. In Russia we often drink vodka after a course to clear the palate.’

 

Wheeler must like that, because he nods enthusiastically. ‘I knew I liked Russians for a reason. Got to say though, there isn’t another course tonight after the pizza. I tend to order in most of the time and I’m still not a dessert man. You remember I never had a sweet tooth.’

 

‘You used to like honey,’ Helena says, before clapping a hand over her mouth, instantly blushing. ‘I cannot believe I said that... James, I am sorry, I should not have mentioned...’

 

But Wheeler is looking at her strangely, those old embers of desire she remembers so well momentarily lighting his eyes. 

 

‘Yeah,’ he says, his voice thick and loaded with promise. ‘Yeah, I used to like honey. But only if you were naked and covered in it, Babe. Then I couldn’t get enough.’

 

They stare at each other for a moment, the air suddenly heavy around them.

 

Helena looks away from him. ‘Do you want to talk about this?’ She asks, and Wheeler shakes his head.

 

‘Nope. Do you?’ 

 

‘No. Not really.’

 

‘Fine. We won’t. At least, not tonight,’ he says, abruptly standing, brushing invisible crumbs from his lap. ‘But we will talk about it, Babe. Not tonight, but soon, okay?’

 

She nods. She watches as he walks into the kitchen, opening a cabinet and pulling from it a bottle. He pulls down two glasses, and then, with a deftness she admires, balances the lot between the fingers of one hand, bringing it back to the table.

 

He pours two measures, handing her a glass. 

 

‘Cheers,’ he says, before he downs the lot. He winces briefly, before pouring himself another measure.

 

‘Yankee, you will get drunk-’ she instantly protests, but at her words he only grins.

 

‘Fuck,’ he exhales. ‘Say that again.’

 

‘What?’ She raises an eyebrow at him coyly. ‘That you will get drunk?’

 

‘No. You know what I want to hear.’

 

‘ _ Yankee, _ ’ she says again, and now he inhales sharply.

 

‘Fuck, but I’ve missed you calling me that. You have no idea how much I’ve missed hearing you call me that. Actually, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you calling me at all. How much I’ve missed  _ you. _ ’

 

‘I have some idea,’ she says quietly, before knocking back her own vodka. He refills her glass without being asked, and she’s glad for the numbing burn of alcohol.

 

‘You’ll get drunk,’ he warns her, but she shrugs. 

 

‘No, I can drink vodka,’ she assures him. ‘I’m Russian... or at least, I was,’ she feels fear and regret unfurl in her stomach. ‘Up until this morning, I was Russian. Now I’m nothing.’

 

‘You’ll never be nothing,’ he tells her easily. ‘You’re everything, and you don’t need a passport from any government to define who you are.’

 

‘I need one to get home though.’

 

But he mustn’t like that thought, because he closes his eyes, rubbing at his forehead. ‘We’ll talk about all that tomorrow,’ he says tiredly. ‘Home can wait for now.’

 

But with a start, Helena sits up. ‘Oh God, Kwame,’ she moans, realisation hitting her hard. ‘Help me, they took my phone off me and he will have been at the airport waiting... he will be frantic... please, where is your phone, Yankee?’

 

‘What’s this about Kwame, Babe?’

 

‘He was going to get me from Heathrow. Oh, please Yankee, just give me your phone. I need to call him. He will be worried.’

 

Wheeler hands her his phone,. ‘I don’t have Kwame’s number saved, Babe,’ he says, quietly. ‘But if you can wait a minute-’

 

‘It is alright. I know it,’ she tells him. An odd look crosses his face as he watches her key the numbers in, and abruptly he stands, taking the pizza boxes into the kitchen. 

 

When Kwame answers the phone, he sounds tired and worn.

 

‘Kwame, I am so sorry...’ she starts, but as soon as she speaks, she hears him exhale with relief.

 

‘Linka? It is you? Thank God, I thought... we thought something had happened to you. You weren’t on your flight... I waited for hours but no one knew what had happened to you. And your phone has been ringing out, for hours now. Where are you? Are you okay?’

 

‘I am in New York,’ she says, conscious of Wheeler’s eyes upon her.

 

‘New York?’ Kwame repeats, confused. ‘But your flight home...’

 

‘They took my passport from me,’ she explains, and Kwame falls silent. ‘And my phone. My bank accounts... they have been frozen.’

 

Kwame stays silent for a moment.

 

‘Where are you? No passport... no phone... no money... Tell me where you are, Linka. They did not imprison you, did they? Wait... I will be one minute... do not hang up...’ she hears Kwame shuffle papers and shout out to someone in the distance. When he returns, he sounds somewhat out of breath. ‘Sam is looking into the legalities of all this,’ he tells her. ‘You know they cannot just render you stateless? Sam is going to call you back once we have some solid information and ideas. And if US immigration have a problem...’

 

‘I am at Wheeler’s,’ she abruptly announces, and Kwame falls silent once more. ‘This is his phone.’

 

He is quiet for a full minute, and she chews on her lip nervously. Wheeler returns from the kitchen, sitting on the opposing sofa, and, with his elbows resting on his knees, watches her carefully.

 

‘Kwame?’ She finally says, and she hears her friend clear his throat.

 

‘I’m sorry,’ Kwame apologises. ‘I was... not expecting that.’

 

‘I know. Neither was I,’ she admits.

 

‘You are really with Wheeler?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Hmm,’ Kwame muses. ‘Well... the world moves in mysterious ways, I suppose.’

 

‘It is not a big deal,’ she retorts, and she sees Wheeler’s eyes flash with annoyance. ‘I have an appointment with the UK consulate on Monday. They should be able to issue me with an emergency travel document. I will be home in just a few days.’

 

‘Hmm,’ Kwame says again, and she feels a flare of irritation. ‘Hmm. Look, Sam wants to talk with you. My better half is the immigration lawyer, after all.’

 

‘Alright. Put Sam on,’ Helena agrees.

 

‘Be careful, old friend,’ Kwame says. ‘I do not want you getting hurt.’

 

‘I am always careful,’ she replies. ‘Besides, the Russians and Volkov will do nothing to me while I am here.’

 

Kwame pauses. ‘I am not worried about you and Russia. I am worried about you and Wheeler. At this point, I would give you and Russia better odds.’

 

Kwame hands the phone to Sam, and Helena runs through the circumstances of her detainment at JFK and the eventual removal of her passport. 

 

‘Look,’ Sam says, as they wind up their conversation. ‘You should have a lawyer with you. I’ll fly into JFK tomorrow... talk to the consulate on your behalf-’

 

‘What? And let you leave Haya? And Kwame?’ Helena protests. ‘It will all be fine. The UK embassy will help me, I am certain of it. There will be a... a democratic struggle otherwise.’

 

‘Diplomatic,’ Sam corrects her. ‘Okay. Okay then. Kwame won’t like it, but okay. But if you need me in any way you just have to call. We all love you, Linka. We’re here for you.’

 

‘I love you too,’ she says softly, and now Wheeler’s eyes harden. She frowns at him, but he simply stands, leaving the room.

 

When she’s done with her call she sits for a moment. The apartment is quiet, and she finishes another shot of vodka before standing. She doesn’t want to pry around Wheeler’s home, but she remembers the way to his bedroom, and decides to head there. 

 

But as she walks down the hall, she finds him in what used to be his parent’s room, making up the bed with a fierce determination that makes her lean back against the door. Even after ten years, even after all this time, she knows when her Yankee is angry.

 

‘Take it out on me, not on the bed,’ she says, and his eyes snap up to hers.

 

‘It’s not a big deal,’ he bites back, ‘that’s what you said, right?’

 

‘You are mad at me.’

 

‘No, I’m not mad at you. I just don’t understand you. I mean, fucking hell, but  _ Kwame? _ ’

 

She sucks in a deep breath, staring at him. ‘What are you implying?’

 

‘Oh, not that,’ he says, swearing again as he struggles with the corners of a fitted sheet. ‘Although if that did happen, just tell me now and get it out there-’

 

‘Do not be ridiculous, Yankee,’ she snaps back. ‘I am not his type.’

 

‘Yeah, exactly,’ he says, stopping dead and staring at her. ‘You’re not his type. So the why the fuck have you spent the last ten years being friends with him, while ignoring me?’

 

Anger, hot and sharp, fills her. ‘Maybe because he did not let me go to... how did you put it? Oh yes, to  _ try new things  _ before immediately running back to his ex-girlfriend. Or was she the girlfriend still? I can never decide, you know. But then, it is hard enough to know what I was to you, let alone her.’

 

The look he gives her is indignant. ‘You wanna talk about Trish?’

 

‘No,’ she says. ‘No. There’s nothing to say. I already know everything. You ended it with me to go back to her. There’s nothing else to add.’

 

Wheeler swears, his fists clenching. ‘You know fuck all,’ he tells her. 

 

She looks down, tears suddenly stinging her eyes. It’s been a long, tiring day and exhaustion is making her weepy, clouding her thoughts and judgment. When she looks up again, Wheeler is watching her. His face is pale, and the sheets are clenched within his hands.

 

‘I’m jealous of Kwame,’ he says bluntly. ‘I’m jealous that he’s been there for you all these years.’

 

‘Kwame and I...’ Helena sighed. ‘We helped each other through heartbreak, Wheeler. Our friendship has its origins in sadness. Do not be jealous of that.’

 

‘You love him,’ Wheeler remarks. ‘That’s more than I ever got from you.’

 

Helena shakes her head. ‘Do not be so jaded. I loved you, once,’ she says sadly. ‘You know I did. Please tell me you know that. Please tell me you remember that, at least.’

 

He looks at her with anguished eyes. ‘Yeah,’ he says, and she can hear the lump in his throat. ‘Yeah. I remember. I guess that’s what makes it so hard. Knowing that you loved me, and yet having you cut me from your life.’

 

‘You didn’t want me-’ she begins to argue, but Wheeler holds up a hand.

 

‘No,’ he stops her. ‘I couldn’t keep you. There’s a difference.’

 

She stares at him, open-mouthed.

 

‘Yankee, what are you saying...?’

 

He drops the sheet from his hands, sinking to the bed, the mattress sagging under his weight.

 

‘I just wanted the scraps,’ he tells her, his voice quiet and almost pained. ‘I couldn’t keep you, I knew that. I couldn’t hold you back. I didn’t want to be that man.’

 

‘What man?’ She whispers.

 

‘The one you regretted,’ he admits. ‘The one you’d look back on and blame, with enough time. So I told myself, okay, she isn’t yours. Not really. Not for keeps. But if you can’t have her in the way you want, maybe you can have just enough to stay in her orbit. Like I said, I didn’t want much, just the scraps of your friendship. But you cut me out completely and gave those scraps to another man instead.’

 

‘I don’t understand,’ Helena sank to the floor, wrapping her arms tight around her body.

 

Wheeler gave her a bitter smile. ‘I didn’t end it with you because I wanted to, Lin. I ended it with you because it was the only way to help you.’

 

‘Help me?’

 

‘Ma-Ti had died, Lin. He’d died, and it was all my fault.’

 

Helena immediately went to protest, but Wheeler stood, coming to the doorway and dropping to the ground next to her. 

 

‘It was my fault, Linka. We all know it. And we went back to Hope Island and Gi and Kwame could hardly look at me...but you... you were so loyal- so fucking loyal. And you spent the next six weeks drying my tears and loving me and fucking the pain away and talking about moving to New York to be with me and I remember one night just watching you sleep and thinking, this girl is going to end up a shadow of who she could be if she stays with me. And I loved you too much to do that to you. I still love you too much. I always will, Babe. That’s just the way it is.’

 

Linka feels a tear traverse slowly down her cheek. With his thumb, Wheeler brushes it from her skin.

 

‘I let you go because I wanted you to go on out there and do all the amazing things I knew you would. And I’m so proud of you, Babe. I’ve followed your career and I’m so fucking proud of you. You did it all. Everything. I’m just gutted I wasn’t there to congratulate you on your journey.’

 

‘You broke my heart,’ Linka says, her voice a pained whisper. ‘You broke it into a thousand pieces. And why? For what?’

 

‘Babe-’

 

‘Because of a misplaced sense of  _ acting the saviour _ ?’ She asks, incredulous even through her pain. ‘You arrogant, selfish, stupid man. Why did you get to decide? Why didn’t you ask me? I  _ loved  _ you. I was stupidly in love with you. You were my world. You were my only thought on waking and going to sleep. You were everything-’

 

‘Exactly,’ Wheeler interrupts. ‘I didn't want that, Babe. I didn’t want to be your world, I wanted you to  _ have  _ the world. I didn’t want to be your everything, I wanted you to have everything.’

 

‘You should’ve told me,’ Linka cries. ‘You should’ve asked me.’

 

‘You wouldn’t have gone, Babe,’ he says simply, pain in his eyes. ‘One of us had to be the grown-up, and it was never going to be you. What? You were going to turn down Cambridge to live in a rented hovel with a broke-ass guy with no education, no skills and no future? Really?’

 

‘You turned out fine. I could have been there... I could have helped.’

 

‘My success is down to nothing more than dumb luck and selling the Planeteer name, you know that. Trish too,’ he adds. Linka winces, but he shakes his head. ‘I’m not proud of my marriage to Trish. I got with her for all the wrong reasons. But think what you like of her, she gave me a good kick up the backside and pushed me and my career forwards. And I’m grateful to her for that.’

 

He falls silent, and Linka brushes another tear from her cheek. He goes to take her hand, but at the first brush of his fingers against hers she bolts upright, shaking her head at him.

 

‘You got with her for all the wrong reasons,’ she laments. ‘And you ended things with me for all the wrong reasons too.’

 

‘Babe, please-’

 

But she’s too tired and heart sore to listen further. ‘This was a mistake,’ she says. ‘Everything about us has always been a mistake.’

 

‘Babe, no...’

 

She looks down at him, at the hair she once loved, at the lips she once kissed, at the eyes she once wept for. She looks down and resolution seeps through her.

 

‘All mistakes,’ she says, with quiet determination. ‘And it is time I started learning from them.’

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is more talking, from Wheeler’s POV.
> 
> They also have sex, which was fun to write.


	8. El Dorado

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has become a monster. More explanation in the next chapter. I’m starting to think this might be more than 12 chapters, because I have no self-control. The conversation Me-Ti and Wheeler has is really, really important down the line in explaining what happened on that final mission.

_ He loves her so much that sometimes it hurts. _

 

_ One day a gun is fired at them as they’re running from a factory that has been releasing sewage into a local nature reserve. The bullet hits Linka in the arm and Wheeler spends a panic-stricken night in a third world hospital, waiting for her to come out of surgery. He vomits twice before she’s given the all-clear, and when she’s finally awake and sitting up in bed, he goes in to see her with red-rimmed eyes, a pale face and shaking fingers. _

 

_ ‘Yankee,’ she says quietly, taking in his wretched state with wide eyes. ‘Yankee, I am fine. It was only my arm.’ _

 

_ But he cries hot tears of relief over her anyway, clutching at her hospital sheets while her fingers stroke through his hair. When Ma-Ti comes in later, his hands laden with grapes and magazines, he finds the Fire Planeteer asleep in his chair by Linka’s bed. He’s bent over at an awkward angle, one arm flung across her hips and his head pressed next to her stomach, tear-stains still on his cheeks. But his face is still and his breathing even, and there is such a look of content happiness on Linka’s face that Ma-Ti backs out of the room quietly, unwilling to disturb them.  _

 

_ When they’re back at home, Linka is temporarily forbidden from missions until she’s fully healed. Every moment Wheeler can spare he spends in her cabin, sometimes taking her dinner in the evening and not emerging until the early hours of the next day. _

 

_ ‘If you keep this up, the others will find out,’ Linka tells him one morning, pulling the blankets from him with her good arm, trying to kick him out of her bed so that he can still give the impression of having woken in his own. But Wheeler, at this point, couldn’t give a fuck about the opinions of the others. He’s fairly certain Ma-Ti and Gi know anyway. Ma-Ti’s just too kind-hearted to mention it without confirmation first from Linka and Wheeler, while Gi, forever chirpy, seems all-too-happy to ignore the changes swirling around her. And Kwame... _

 

_ Well, Kwame has always been quiet, pensive even. But he’s been brooding more than usual since Linka’s injury, keeping to himself and taking long walks across the island. Whatever is going on with the Earth Planeteer, it engrosses him enough that he hardly seems to notice the burgeoning relationship between his friends. Wheeler keeps meaning to sit down with Kwame, to try and talk out whatever is bothering his friend. But he’s been so preoccupied with Linka that he hasn’t really had the impetus, and whenever he sees Kwame, they spend so much of their time discussing schedules and alerts and how to cover Linka’s role during her illness that personal matters are at the bottom of what feels like a very long list. _

 

_ ‘Ten more minutes,’ Wheeler tells Linka, pulling her back to him and throwing the blankets over them both. ‘Just ten more minutes.’ _

 

_ ‘You said that yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that,’ Linka says, but her protest is an empty one. She lies prone in his arms, her back to his chest, sighing happily as Wheeler’s fingers begin inching their way across her stomach. ‘Ten more minutes,’ she agrees, when his fingers suddenly dip lower, ‘Ten more,’ she moans, into her pillow. _

 

_ ‘Twenty,’ Wheeler grins, biting lightly into the soft flesh of her shoulder.  _

 

_ ‘My perfect capitalist pig,’ she says, her breath hitching as he pulls down her underwear. ‘Always wanting more.’ _

 

_ ‘My perfect socialist angel,’ he returns, pushing himself inside her and feeling a pulse of sheer pleasure. ‘Always sharing what she has so nicely.’ _

 

_ Later that day, he’s happily throwing med-packs into the geo-cruiser when Ma-Ti appears, ready for their trip to the Mainland. _

 

_ ‘Where’s Kwame and Gi, Little Buddy?’ Wheeler asks. _

 

_ ‘Gi’s just checking on Linka before we leave,’ Ma-Ti replies. ‘Although I told her you’d already checked on Linka yourself this morning.’ _

 

_ Wheeler’s eyes snap towards Ma-Ti, looking for any sign of guile or shrewdness. But Ma-Ti’s expression is flat, his smile easy, and Wheeler grins at him.  _

 

_ ‘Yeah, I did. Checked on her twice, in fact. Well, what about Kwame?’ _

 

_ ‘Ah,’ at this, Ma-Ti’s face fell slightly. ‘Kwame has asked to sit this one out. He says it's only a care-run, after all, and not an eco-emergency, so...’ _

 

_ Wheeler frowns. ‘He doesn’t wanna come?’ _

 

_ ‘No. He has seeds to lay out for the coming season, and...’ Ma-Ti trails off. ‘I think he has things on his mind.’ _

 

_ ‘Yeah,’ Wheeler agrees. ‘He’s been kinda... I don’t know... off since Linka was shot. I mean, the guy’s always kept to himself, but these past few weeks...’ _

 

_ ‘We all love Linka. It was a big shock to us.’ _

 

_ ‘Yeah,’ Wheeler threw another med-pack into the cruiser, wiping at his forehead. ‘Yeah, tell me about it.’ _

 

_ ‘But you love her the most,’ Ma-Ti continues, and Wheeler stares at him.  _

 

_ ‘What? How do you... when did you...?’ _

 

_ Ma-Ti shrugs, holding up his ring, the sun glinting off the rose pink centre and making it shine. ‘I feel things,’ he says. ‘Some things have been... particularly strong, recently.’ _

 

_ ‘What kind of... things?’ Wheeler asks, his trepidation evident. _

 

_ ‘Emotions, mainly,’ Ma-Ti says, ‘it is hard to explain.’ _

 

_ Wheeler pauses delicately, looking at Ma-Ti intently. _

 

_ ‘Hey, Little Buddy, we’ve never talked about this before, but you don’t ever feel... uh... you know, sensations, do you? Because I’m not sure I can handle knowing that...’ _

 

_ But Ma-Ti flushes hard, shaking his head adamantly. _

 

_ ‘No, nothing like that,’ he replies, and Wheeler feels his shoulders slump with relief. ‘It is mainly...’ Ma-Ti bites his lip. ‘It is like seeing a shadow of something. Like when the air becomes heavy, and you know a storm is on the way. Or when you smell blossom in the air before the flowers open. That kind of thing. Just hints.’ Abruptly, Ma-Ti frowns. ‘There have been some strong hints recently. Intense love. Intense longing. Fear, underneath it all. It is... difficult for me.’ _

 

_ Wheeler nods. ‘I’m sorry, Little Buddy.’ _

 

_ But Ma-Ti only smiles. ‘There is no need for an apology. They are natural emotions. But I have never been in love, and it is difficult to process something you know nothing about.’ _

 

_ ‘One day it’ll be your turn too,’ Wheeler grins. ‘One day, you’ll meet someone who’ll just take your breath away. And then it will be my turn to tease you.’ _

 

_ Ma-Ti gives an embarrassed smile. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I want that for myself.’ _

 

_ Wheeler regards him with new interest. ‘Well, what do you want, Little Buddy?’ _

 

_ ‘I’m not sure. It is hard to think beyond the next mission, here,’ Ma-Ti’s answer is honest and open. _

 

_ ‘That’s true enough,’ Wheeler replies. ‘But you gotta have a few dreams and desires of your own, you know? The things you think about during the hard times, so that you can make the next mission, enjoy the next day.’ _

 

_ Ma-Ti’s brows crease together. ‘What do you want?’ He asks Wheeler with genuine interest. ‘What do dream of? Desire for yourself?’ _

 

_ Wheeler stops, a flood of uncertainty filling him. ‘You’ll probably laugh at me if I tell you, kid.’ _

 

_ But Ma-Ti shakes his head quickly. ‘I would never laugh at you.’ _

 

_ Wheeler nods slowly. ‘Okay,’ he says, licking his lips. ‘Okay. I guess I think about the future. About leaving the Planeteers one day. Maybe having a regular job. A wife. A couple of kids. A lawn to mow on a Saturday. Soccer games on a Sunday. That kind of thing.’ _

 

_ Ma-Ti stares at him.  _

 

_ ‘What?’ Wheeler asks, immediately self-conscious. But Ma-Ti only smiles. _

 

_ ‘I was waiting for the rest. For the funny part.’ _

 

_ ‘That was the funny part.’ _

 

_ ‘Oh,’ Ma-Ti looks confused. ‘But there is nothing funny in that at all. It is everything that many a man across the world dreams of. Why would I find it so funny for you?’ _

 

_ Wheeler grimaces. ‘Can you honestly imagine me, the family man? Look, Little Buddy, I grew up in a bad place with bad parents. No siblings, no real friends, no real dreams. There wasn’t much for me to look forward to. I didn’t ever think about the future, because I figured the future wasn’t thinkin’ about me.’  _

 

_ Wheeler throws another med-pack into the cruiser. When he turns back to Ma-Ti, the Heart Planeteer is looking at him curiously. ‘So, anyway, across the road from our apartment there was this billboard,’ Wheeler carries on, ‘and for a few months when I was, I don’t know, I guess about twelve? Well, it had this advert on. It was for Colorado, of all places. Colorado, home of the Rockies. Colorado, the clean state. That kind of bullshit slogan. It was corny and it was tacky but it had this picture of a family on it- you know, the picture perfect family... Mom, Dad, two cute kids. And I liked that.’ _

 

_ Ma-Ti leans against the geo-cruiser, watching Wheeler with open and undisguised interest. Wheeler swallows hard before talking again. ‘So I go to my Mom, and I say, ‘hey, Mom, I wanna go to Colorado,’ and she looks at me like I’m crazy. And then she went to my Dad and said, ‘hey, Jim, the kid here wants to go to Colorado.’ Now, my Dad is a real asshole, the kind who laughs through his nose and speaks with his fists, and he laughed at me. He laughed at me, before getting to his feet and opening up a can of Boulder Beer. ‘Drink this, kid,’ he told me. ‘That’s the closest to Colorado you’re ever getting,’ and then he slapped me on the back and opened another.’ _

 

_ Ma-Ti’s face is one of horror. ‘Wheeler...’ _

 

_ But Wheeler shrugs. ‘That’s why it’s funny, Little Buddy. Because what the fuck do I know about families? What the fuck do I know about mowing the lawn on a Saturday or soccer games on a Sunday? I’m a grade A joke, always wanting what I can’t have, like the perfect family, the perfect house...’ _

 

_ He goes to add ‘Linka’ to that list before he stops, thinking about his words. Because he still, at the end of the day, sees her as something above him. She’s perfect; clever, beautiful, kind and just temperamental enough to keep him on his toes. He loves her, more than he’s ever loved anyone or anything in his life. But there is an undercurrent in his affection for her of unworthiness, of doubt and self-dismissal. Linka’s too good for the likes of him, he knows that. And she can kiss him and hug him and make love to him all she wants but ultimately, he’s waiting for the inevitable day when she realises that too. _

 

_ Ma-Ti is staring at him, and Wheeler flushes, uncertain as to how much of his thought process the Heart Planeteer has been witness to.  _

 

_ ‘I should finish up,’ Wheeler tells him awkwardly, indicating to the remaining med-packs on the ground. _

 

_ Ma-Ti nods, but looks at Wheeler seriously. ‘You know Wheeler, I do not see a joke here,’ he says, with an insight rarely found in a teenager. ‘I see a man fighting for the things he truly desires in life. I see a man with a clear vision of his intended future. It is not a joke, but an admirable trait, my friend.’ _

 

_ ‘Ma-Ti...’ Wheeler begins, but finds he cannot finish the sentence. _

 

_ Ma-Ti takes advantage of his silence. ‘I hope you get Colorado, some day. You deserve it, truly and sincerely, my friend,’ he glances surreptitiously in the direction of Linka’s cabin. ‘Strange, I know a girl who also does not know much about families, about soccer games, or mowing lawns on a Saturday,’ abruptly, Ma-Ti gives Wheeler an encouraging pat on the back. ‘I wonder if she wouldn’t also like Colorado, some day?’ _

 

_ And with what Wheeler would describe as a shit-eating grin, Ma-Ti opens up the door of the geo-cruiser and disappears within. _

 

_ *** _

 

Linka sleeps in his bedroom, while Wheeler has to make do with his parent’s old room. He’s never slept in that room before, even though it's the bigger one. When he left Trish he simply came home and took to his old bedroom as though he’d never left, as though he’d never loved and lost one woman or married and lost another. As though he’d never been a Planeteer, or a television celebrity. As though he were still a teenager, and not a grown man. It’s an act of regression, he knows, but one he doesn’t think twice about. 

 

Sometimes he gets tired of being an adult. Of making hard decisions when given impossible choices. 

 

He tosses and turns all night, before getting up early and going for a run. He dumps a clean towel outside of his bedroom door, trying hard not to think of the girl asleep behind it. Having Linka in his home and in his bed is a strange sensation, and if it weren’t for her travel bag, sitting neatly by his sofa where she left it, he might think he’d imagined the whole thing.

 

He’s dreamed of her for years now. Sometimes they’re tender ones, where she kisses and embraces him and forgives him, her tears like rain on his shoulder. Sometimes they’re cruel ones, where she cries and blames him and berates him, her face hard, blood on his hands. But, more often than not, they’re erotic ones, dreams where she pins him down and rides him hard, her face distorted and beautiful all at once. He’s used to waking in the morning and mourning her loss anew. He’s used to waking and taking a deep breath, pushing her memory from his skin.

 

He’s not used to waking and knowing that she’s  _ here.  _ He’s not used to waking and being able to do something so innocuous as giving her a towel.

 

When he returns home, having run a short five miles where every footstep felt like lead, she’s sitting in his living room again, freshly washed and in clean clothes, her hair out, the damp tendrils leaving translucent patches on her blouse.

 

He averts his eyes by wiping his face with a hand towel, hating his mind for automatically recalling the creamy swell of her breasts, and how they’d once felt under his hands and on his tongue.

 

‘Good morning,’ she says primly, and he nods at her. ‘James, I want to apologise for last night and-’

 

But he holds up a hand to stop her as he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and takes a large gulp. 

 

‘No, look, just stop with the apologies, okay? I promised you yesterday that I would be your friend, that we wouldn’t have any hard talks, and I’m the one who broke that promise, okay? So just stop. We might not know each other too well these days, but some things don’t change, and you and I having words is clearly one of them. We both know how this story goes.’

 

She nods, looking down at her hands.

 

‘You eaten yet?’ He asks her, and she looks up, seemingly surprised by the change in his tone.

 

‘No.’

 

‘Good. You’ve probably noticed that I don’t keep much in the fridge here. Give me ten minutes to get showered and changed and I’ll take you out for breakfast.’

 

She nods again, her eyes flicking up to meet his, startling green orbs under thick dark lashes. He stares at her, momentarily flustered, before walking out of the living room and down the hall to his bathroom. He remembers her eyes flicking up at him under better circumstances, like the long nights back on Hope Island, when she would pant and writhe underneath him, her wrists pinned tight to the bed, her legs wrapped around his waist. She’d moan and plead with him in Russian, and he’d lick at her skin, tasting salt and sweet all at once. The taste of desire, for Wheeler at least, is forever linked with the taste of Linka.

 

He takes a cooler shower than normal, using every inch of his willpower not to take himself in hand and relieve the tension that’s tightly coiling in his belly, before throwing on an old pair of jeans. When he goes back to living room he finds Linka sitting much as before, and he feels a flare of annoyance ripple through him.

 

‘You don’t have to just sit there like a doll, you know,’ he tells her. ‘For the next few days, at least, this is home.’

 

‘This is not home, James,’ she replies quietly, and he pauses.

 

‘You know what, you’re right. So, tell me, where is home for you these days? The U.K, right? That’s why you’re going to that consulate.’

 

She shrugs. ‘I use the U.K as a base, yes. I have a small house in Cambridge. But I do not consider it home.’

 

‘Russia,’ he exhales, and she shrugs again.

 

‘I have not been to Russia in years now. I do not think I have a home these days. Not really.’

 

There’s an underlying sadness to her voice that worries him, and he crouches by her side, not touching her, but looking at her steadily.

 

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Babe. Everyone should have a home.’

 

She looks around at his living room. ‘You have a nice flat here, James. I remember it from when your...’ 

 

She stops, colouring, and Wheeler gives her a wry smile. He knows she was about to say, ‘When your father died,’ and he’s okay with that. 

 

‘I redecorated,’ he tells her, and she smiles.

 

‘It looks good. Better,’ she clears her throat suddenly. ‘Where is your mother, these days?’

 

‘Florida,’ he says, standing again. ‘Retirement village in Tampa with a side order of intervention. She’s doing her 12 steps in the sunshine. It’s better for her.’

 

Now Linka gives him a genuine smile, and his heart quickens at the sight of it. He’d nearly forgotten just how brilliant and dazzling her smiles could be.

 

‘Your mother is.... um, how do you say? On the carriage?’

 

He laughs, shaking his head at her. ‘You’ve been living in England too long, Babe. It’s ‘on the wagon’, actually. But yeah, she is. She’s doing well. Even taking yoga classes and everything. All I ever hear when I speak to her is ‘downward dog’ this, and ‘lotus position’ that.’

 

‘I am glad for you,’ Linka says genuinely, and he smiles. 

 

‘Come on. We can talk over breakfast. I know a great deli down the road who do a mean vegetarian omelette.’

 

‘With vegan bacon, I suppose?’ Linka asks, but her cheeks flush red as she speaks, and he looks back at her.

 

‘What is it?’ He presses her.

 

‘It is nothing,’ Linka says, but he knows her too well. Linka never speaks without meaning. Nothing with this girl is ever flippant or thoughtless. 

 

‘Out with it,’ he says, locking his door and taking her hand as they turn to the stairs.

 

‘It really is nothing. Sometimes I speak without meaning to. My mind runs so fast and sometimes I speak before I can...’ she stops when she sees Wheeler looking at her with sceptical eyes. ‘It was just something I’d heard you say once, a long time ago. On the television.’

 

He looks at her blankly, trying to recall the instance she’s referring to. A blast of cold air greets them outside, and without even thinking, he slips his scarf from his neck and loops it around hers. 

 

‘Vegan bacon...’ he repeats, shaking his head.

 

‘It does not matter,’ Linka says, but he can tell from the tone of her voice that it does. ‘Where is this restaurant then, James?’

 

He leads the way, keeping tight a hold of her hand as they make their way towards the deli. It’s warm and cosy inside, and they sit at a table by the window, Linka looking outside, deliberately keeping her gaze from him. In her silence, Wheeler orders for both of them, and then sits, drumming his fingers on the countertop, waiting for her to talk. But Linka remains quiet, looking away from him, and he knows something is on her mind. He follows her gaze, catching sight of the flakes of snow that are falling gradually from the sky, dusting the ground white. 

 

‘A perfect New York winter,’ Wheeler remarks, hoping to draw her back to their conversation, back to  _ him.  _ Anything but this unending silence.

 

‘This is nothing compared to Russia,’ she replies, but her voice is cool, detached even. It makes his blood heat with fury even while his spine feels cold with fear.

 

‘Just spit it out, will you, Babe?’ He begs suddenly. ‘Look, we’ve only got a couple of days together... and... and I just can’t bear the thought of you holding out on me. If you want to say something, just say it. Don’t fucking mess around.’

 

At that, she finally turns to him, and there is a blazing anger in her face. ‘Why did you not speak to me that day?’ She asks sharply. ‘You were there, I  _ saw  _ you, but you did not speak with me.’

 

‘What day?’ He asks, still lost on ‘vegan bacon’.

 

‘When I gave that lecture at NYU,’ she says, and he feels himself go pale. ‘You were in the audience that day, Yankee. I saw you. You were there and I saw you and I waited for you to find me but you did not.’

 

A vague feeling of nausea goes through him.

 

‘But... but the lighting...’ he stutters. ‘How did you even see me?’

 

Linka mutters something in Russian under her breath. ‘You were a Planeteer, Yankee, not James Bond. They dimmed the stage light before the projections began and I saw you sitting in the back. You are a large man with red hair. Who else would it be?’

 

He’s floored that she saw him that day, and even more floored when tears begin to gather in her eyes. 

 

‘You were  _ there, _ listening to my every word,’ she says, hurt in her voice. ‘My heart was beating so fast and I could hardly talk once I knew you were there. I was sure I would trip over my words or make an error. I was so angry and so excited all at once.’

 

‘Angry?’ Wheeler asks, his heart in his throat.

 

‘Yes, angry. I had looked forward to that talk for months, prepared for it all day and night for weeks before. It was my first lecture post PHD... my first chance to prove myself and my thesis.’

 

Wheeler swallows. ‘Babe... I had no idea... if I’d known-’

 

‘Well, you did not,’ Linka snaps. ‘Besides, even if you had known, would you have stayed away?’

 

Wheeler shakes his head. He’s always been a bad liar where Linka is concerned, unable to lie to her face, and unable to lie to others when talking about her. He spent years with Trish, sidestepping any talk of Linka, never mentioning her name, never talking about anything to do with her or the Planeteers, just in case he slipped and revealed the aching loss she had left in his heart.

 

‘No,’ he replies now without hesitation. ‘I’d still have gone. I don’t know what it was, Babe. I just wanted to see you,’ his face darkens. ‘And I saw you alright. You. And  _ him.’ _

 

A waitress dumps a pot of coffee on their table and Linka busies herself pouring out two cups. ‘Ah,’ she says shortly. ‘You saw me with Dr. Cox.’

 

‘ _ Dr. Cox,’  _ Wheeler sneers. ‘I knew the guy was probably a dick.’

 

Linka slams her cup of coffee on the table, a dark droplet spilling out and onto the white tablecloth. He waits for her to clean it up, to ask the waitress for soda water and salt before it stains, but she’s too busy glaring at him to indulge in her normal fastidiousness.

 

‘Richard is a good man,’ Linka says tightly. ‘A good man, who helped me on many an occasion.’

 

‘Richard?’ Wheeler can’t help his pettiness. ‘Definitely a dick then.’

 

Linka shakes her head at him in disgust, but Wheeler can’t help himself. He’s angry and hurting and in the mood for a fight.

 

‘Your boyfriend, right?’

 

‘He was,’ Linka replies, her voice ice-cold.

 

Wheeler feels both a dart of pain and a shimmer of relief at her words. He hates the thought of her with any other man, almost as much as he hates himself for feeling so unnaturally possessive of her. Linka’s not his, she doesn’t belong to him and he shouldn’t resent her having relationships with other people. But he can’t help the small voice in his head which says that she  _ is  _ his, that she  _ does  _ belong to him. The same voice which, at this moment, is celebrating her apparent singleness with glee.

 

‘That’s why I didn’t speak to you,’ he admits. ‘I waited in the foyer for an hour,’ he flushed, still smarting at the memory. ‘You came out and that guy was all over you.’

 

Linka rolls her eyes. ‘I doubt that,’ she says drily. ‘Richard was never the kind to be outwardly affectionate with me. He knew I did not appreciate it.’

 

Wheeler nods, because he hasn’t forgotten that. It was one of the things he loved about her, one of the things he’s certain he could still love about her, given the chance. He always loved how tightly controlled his girl would be in everyday life, unravelling only under his mouth and fingers when hidden away together. 

 

‘I was hurt,’ he tells her simply. ‘I don’t like seeing you with other men. No, let me finish...’ he carries on, when he sees her mouth about to open with protest. ‘I know I don’t have any rights here. I get that. But I can’t help the way I feel, Babe, and seeing you that day... with  _ Dr. Cox  _ all over you...’ he shrugs. ‘It was like having a bucket of cold water thrown over me. You’d moved on.’

 

Linka brushes a tear from her cheek, looking into her coffee. ‘I thought you did not want to see me. I thought maybe you had come just to, I do not not even know... perhaps make sure you  _ had  _ made the right decision to let me go. I tortured myself thinking about that, for a long time.’

 

Another tear falls down her cheek, and Wheeler reaches out, gripping her hand tightly.

 

‘Babe,’ he says firmly, ‘Babe, look at me.’

 

She does, her eyes greener than ever. He loves how her eyes change colour with her mood, but he hates that he’s responsible for her tears.

 

‘Babe,’ he whispers. ‘Babe, it was the worst decision I ever made.’

 

She hitches back a sob at that, and he wipes at her cheek himself this time.

 

‘Why Trish?’ She whispers back, and he feels a deep wave of shame wash over him. ‘Of all the girls to hurt me with, why her?’

 

‘Honestly? I don’t even know,’ he admits. ‘I was lost, I was lonely, and I thought I’d lost the only girl I’d ever loved by pushing her away. I was saving you from myself, and I was arrogant enough to imagine that we could go back to the way we were before...’

 

‘Ma-Ti,’ Linka whispers, and Wheeler blanches.

 

‘No,’ he says. ‘No, before  _ us.  _ And Trish... she wasn’t about hurting you, Babe. Please believe that,’ he swallows hard. ‘I guess, in a way, I picked up where I left off. I’d failed the Planeteers, I wasn’t good enough for you... Trish was there, in my old life, right where I’d left her and...’

 

And he trails off, squeezing Linka’s hand.

 

‘There’s so much I got wrong,’ he says. ‘There’s so much still to fix.’

 

Linka looks at him keenly, her eyes suddenly sharp. ‘That was the last thing Gi ever said to me, you know,’ she admits, and Wheeler’s head snaps up.

 

‘What?’ He asks. He still can’t help but wonder what happened to the Water Planeteer.

 

Linka nods. ‘She turned to me, just before she left Hope Island, and said ‘Linka, I am going to fix this, if it is the last thing I do.’ And then she left, and I have not seen her since.’

 

‘I don’t even remember what the last thing Gi ever said to me was,’ Wheeler says, his throat dry.

 

‘Ma-Ti...’ Linka starts, and Wheeler shakes his head.

 

‘Don’t...’ he begs, ‘let’s not do this-’

 

‘Ma-Ti told me to trust you,’ Linka carries on. ‘Just before everything went black, he told me to trust you.’

 

Wheeler stares at her.

 

‘What happened?’ Linka suddenly implores. ‘One moment I was in that box, and Ma-Ti was in my head and then it all went black. I woke and he was gone. What happened? Did he say anything to you?’

 

Wheeler closes his eyes. His fists are clenched tightly, and he can recall, with sickening clarity, the glass prison around him. Across the room, Linka lies slumped, her forehead bloody, while Gi screams beside her. Water pools faster and faster at his feet, swamping his shoes, and Linka is so close to...

 

But beneath his fingertips, a button lingers, and he’s going to press it, he’s going to be the one, this is the moment he was made for, the perfect hero’s ending, and...

 

Wheeler opens his eyes. He’s crying, tears running freely down his cheeks, and he shrugs at Linka.

 

‘Colorado,’ he half laughs, half sobs. She stares at him. ‘The last thing Ma-Ti ever said to me was ‘Colorado,’ that crazy, stupid, fucking kind-hearted kid...’

 

‘El Dorado? It is a place? Why would Ma-Ti...? I do not understand, Yankee...’

 

‘Colorado,’ Wheeler corrects her through his tears. ‘And it’s a place... but Ma-Ti... he knew it was something more... and he wanted me to have it. He died, so that I could have Colorado.’

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you soon for more angst.


	9. Head-Counted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How can they talk so much without saying anything at all?!

_ They’re in the common room drinking coffee one morning when Kwame holds out a large, brown envelope to Linka. _

 

_ ‘You have mail from the U.K,’ he says, and Linka looks up.  _

 

_ Receiving mail on Hope Island is rare. It isn’t that people don’t write to them, in fact it's the opposite: people write to them all the time, from all over the world. But in order to maintain Hope Island’s secrecy, a generic postbox address on the mainland is used for their correspondence. It gets read and filtered by the team of assistants hired to take care of the day-to-day logistics of their work: their incomes, their taxes, their visas, their fanmail. Occasionally, Linka feels a stab of frustration at her inability to curate her own life. But being a planeteer is exhausting, and this is one small way in which their workload is lessened.  _

 

_ The only post sent to the island is from family and friends, but even that is slim. Gi probably receives the most, being the only planeteer with two living, loving parents. Linka opens the occasional letter from Mishka. But orphaned Kwame, neglected Wheeler and closed society Ma-Ti expect and receive nothing. _

 

_ ‘I hate that you do not even receive a birthday card,’ Linka once told Wheeler, but he only shrugged at her concern. _

 

_ ‘I don’t need post from others, babe.’ _

 

_ ‘But your family-’ _

 

_ ‘I’m better off without them, trust me. Besides, I’ve got you and the others. You’re my family now.’ _

 

_ So, she opens the letter gingerly, looking at it curiously. ‘The University of Cambridge’ is written across the top in an imposing, severe letterhead. She scans the letter quickly, before shoving it back into the envelope. She looks up to four pairs of curious eyes and shrugs at the others. _

 

_ ‘It is a university placement offer,’ she explains. ‘I am being... how do you say it? Head-counted?’ _

 

_ ‘Head-hunted,’ Gi grins, motioning for the letter. Linka hands it over wordlessly. _

 

_ ‘Dear Miss Yelena Orlova, I was extremely pleased to read your essay on the nesting habits of seabirds previously affected by oil-spills in the Gulf. Having looked at your impressive transcripts and...’ Gi begins, before staring at Linka in wonder. ‘Linka, this is a full scholarship to the University of Cambridge for a Masters Degree in biological anthropology and environmental sciences. This is... this is... amazing, Linka.’ _

 

_ Linka’s eyes drift involuntarily to Wheeler, who is watching her carefully. _

 

_ ‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘I will be sorry to say no to them.’ _

 

_ ‘No?’ Gi splutters. ‘No? Linka, you can’t just turn down Cambridge University. This is all you’ve ever wanted in life.’ _

 

_ Linka flushes. Because yes, perhaps it was all she ever wanted, once upon a time. She remembers being twelve years old and graduating from her local high school in Russia, and rather than it being a moment of joy, finding in her accomplishment only sorrow. _

 

_ ‘You’re very bright, Yelena Mikhailovna,’ her teacher had told her. ‘But there is nothing here for a girl like you, you know that. Your grandmother cannot afford to send you to University, and you have exhausted all the learning materials we have to offer here.’ He’d shrugged at her regretfully. ‘I would advise you to keep with your gymnastics... perhaps a university will take you on with an athletics scholarship, one day.’ _

 

_ But that day had never come, and Gaia had pulled Linka from an uncertain future with the Planeteers. But somewhere, deep inside her, the flame of ambition Linka tended timidly carried on burning, and she longed to learn and be more than her upbringing ever promised her.  _

 

_ ‘I am a Planeteer,’ she tells Gi, but even to her the words sound false. ‘That calling must come first. Besides, there are always correspondence courses, should I wish to earn a degree one day.’ _

 

_ Gi looks at her like she is crazy, but hands the letter back, and Linka tucks it into her jacket carefully. _

 

_ She glances up at Wheeler again, and finds his eyes still watching her, detached and thoughtful. _

 

_ Later, he’s naked on her bed when he brings up the letter again. It’s a hot, sticky night and his skin is damp with sweat and warm to the touch. And touch him Linka does, running a hand from the small of his back up to his shoulder blades and then down again, finding peace in the repetitive movements and in the gentle sighs issuing from his lips. It’s quiet and her own clothes lie in a heap by the bed, and she really should get up and fold them, tidy them away for tomorrow but she’s so warm and sated and content and Wheeler is warm and here and- _

 

_ And he turns suddenly, capturing her hands in his and rolling them so that she is pinned to the bed. _

 

_ ‘I can hear you thinkin’ sometimes, you know that?’ He squeezes her hands. ‘Don’t you ever just turn off, babe?’ _

 

_ ‘I was thinking about you,’ she replies easily, and he grins.  _

 

_ ‘Oh, yeah?’ _

 

_ ‘Yes,’ she admits with a blush. _

 

_ ‘What were you thinkin’?’ _

 

_ ‘That I like having you here, like this.’ _

 

_ His face softens, and his grip on her hands slackens. ‘Tell me,’ he asks, lowering his body to hers and kissing her shoulder gently. _

 

_ ‘I like it when it is just you and me,’ she says. ‘I like it when it is quiet and when it is warm and when we have the whole night before us. We do not have to run anywhere in the morning, and you do not have to go back to your own cabin, and... and...’ _

 

_ ‘And?’ He kisses the other shoulder. _

 

_ She pulls at his hair, so that he is looking her in the eye. Their noses nearly touch, and his breath is warm on her cheek. _

 

_ ‘And I am very happy with you, James.’ _

 

_ He sighs above her, before nudging her nose with his, and then lowering his lips to kiss at the wound on her arm. _

 

_ It’s healed, but there will always be a scar.  _

 

_ She’s glad of it. Somehow, it makes all of this seem more real. Tangible proof on her skin that this happened, that this is real. _

 

_ ‘Babe?’ _

 

_ ‘Mmm?’ _

 

_ ‘I love you too.’ _

 

_ He settles his weight over her body, laying his head against her naked breast and she wraps her arms around him, kissing his head.  _

 

_ Perhaps they sleep. Perhaps they drowse. All Linka knows is the perfect warmth of him in her arms, the even breaths he takes against her skin, the slow-moving moon skirting across the sky through her window and- _

 

_ And- _

 

_ ‘I don’t think we should do this anymore,’ Wheeler suddenly whispers, and her arms tighten around him. _

 

_ ‘Us?’ She asks worriedly. ‘But we...’ _

 

_ He sits up instantly, shaking his head. ‘No. No, I didn’t mean- not us, babe. You and me, we’re forever. You know that, right?’ His eyes are anxious, and he cups her face in his hands. ‘I ain’t ever lettin’ you go, you got that?’ _

 

_ She nods, and some of the worry leaves his eyes. He kisses her, just a press of his lips against hers, and leans back. _

 

_ ‘I meant the Planeteers,’ he explains. ‘We’ve been doing this for a few years now, babe. And that...’ he nods to the scar on her arm. ‘That scared the hell out of me. You and me doing this... doing you and me... well, it’s what we call a ‘game-changer’ back home.’ _

 

_ ‘I do not understand,’ she whispers back. _

 

_ He sits up, keeping a hand on her stomach, rubbing at her soft skin. ‘When it was just flirting, it was fine. When it was just me in love with you, well, that was fine too. But now... now the stakes are too high and I don’t want to risk this anymore. We’re going out on missions and I’m resenting every minute. I’m watching you constantly when we’re out there, and when I’m not watching you, I’m worryin’ about you.’ _

 

_ ‘I am no wilting flower, James,’ Linka sits up too, almost affronted. ‘I can take care of myself.’ _

 

_ ‘I know that,’ Wheeler replies quickly. ‘Hell, you’ve proved to me again and again how capable you are. But babe, you gotta understand, I’m always going to worry about you. I love you, Lin. With everything I’ve got, I love you. And don’t think we should do this anymore.’ _

 

_ ‘But the Planeteers-’ _

 

_ ‘Will carry on being the Planeteers without us. Gaia always said the rings chose us, well, we’ll just give them back and let them choose other people.’ _

 

_ Linka is silent for a moment, regarding Wheeler curiously.  _

 

_ ‘Say it is that easy, then. Well, what would we do?’ She asks eventually, and he smiles. _

 

_ ‘I don’t know. You could go to that university you got that letter from.’ _

 

_ She shakes her head. ‘Not without you... do not make me go without you-’ _

 

_ ‘Babe,’ he smiles at her. ‘Whatever we do, we do together. I’m sure I could get a visa for the U.K... or even if I can’t, I could visit from the States or... or, I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.’ _

 

_ She looks at him. ‘Or, I could just go with you,’ she suggests. ‘To New York.’ _

 

_ ‘New York?’ He raises an eyebrow at her and she grins. _

 

_ ‘They have universities in New York, don’t they?’ _

 

_ ‘Yeah,’ he grins back. ‘Good ones. They’re no Cambridge... but still good,’ he pauses. ‘You’d do that? Come with me?’ _

 

_ She nods. ‘It will be difficult. Getting a visa for the United States, for a Russian... it will be difficult. But easier for me than it would be for you to come to Russia. You do not speak Russian, for one thing, and-’ _

 

_ ‘Hey,’ Wheeler leans back against the pillows, pulling her with him and settling them both against the mattress. ‘Hey, I’m learning.’ _

 

_ ‘You are,’ she admits, kissing him softly. He moans into her mouth, and she pulls away. ‘But it will still be easier for me to travel than you. Particularly if I apply for a student visa.’ _

 

_ ‘Why not a spousal visa?’ Wheeler asks, and Linka feels her heart quicken in her chest. _

 

_ ‘What?’ She whispers, and he grins into her hair. _

 

_ ‘Don’t play dumb with me, babe. You’re the smartest girl I know. Scratch that, the smartest person I know. You know what I mean.’ _

 

_ She sits up, looking deep into his eyes. They’re ocean-blue and sparkling, and she smiles at him. _

 

_ But not for long. Because somewhere inside her she feels nostalgia and the past rising, and she turns from him with a shrug. _

 

_ ‘We shall see,’ she replies lightly. ‘Perhaps, once I am in America, I might get a better offer elsewhere.’ _

 

_ But he doesn’t want to play that old game of chase tonight. He laughs, low and throaty, and hauls her onto her back, pinning her once more.  _

 

_ ‘I normally enjoy catching you, but not tonight, babe. Come on. I want to marry you, Lin. And I think you want to marry me too. But I want you to think about it. Seriously, no jokes, okay?’ _

 

_ She nods, biting her lip. The flesh becomes red, moist and swollen and Wheeler runs a finger over her mouth, before capturing her lips with his own. His hands release hers and she clings to him, whispering to him in Russian and urging him further. It doesn’t take long for him to respond, and the sun is cresting in the distance when, eventually, they fall apart together, words of love and promise in their mouths. _

 

_ ‘Can we really do this?’ Linka asks him afterwards, pressed tightly against him, his fingers in her hair. ‘A Russian and an American, can we do this? Our countries are still so troubled...’ _

 

_ Wheeler kisses her. ‘Of course we can do this. We can do whatever we want, so long as we’re together.’ _

 

_ Linka cannot help but worry. ‘The iron curtain still stands for so many Russians, James, and I...’ _

 

_ But Wheeler sighs, and though it should be impossible, pulls her closer. _

 

_ ‘Curtain’s gotta fall sometime, babe. Curtain’s gotta fall sometime.’ _

 

_ *** _

 

They leave the diner silently and return to Wheeler’s apartment. As soon as they are safely behind his door Linka shrugs off her coat and turns to Wheeler.

 

‘Do you want to talk about Ma-Ti? Ma-Ti and this... this  _ Colorado? _ ’ She asks, and he pales, shaking his head.

 

‘Fuck no,’ he exhales. 

 

She nods. ‘We will later,’ she decides. ‘I want to know what happened, after everything went black.’

 

He sighs. ‘Didn’t... didn’t Kwame ever tell you anything?’

 

Linka shakes her head. ‘He did not want to talk about it. Did you know he went to a therapist about it, in London? That was how he met Sam.’

 

Wheeler shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘I didn’t know that. I always figured he’d met Sam in Calais.’

 

Linka walks into his kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, searching out cups and spoons and tea and milk. Wheeler follows her, watching her from the doorway. ‘No,’ she says. ‘No, Sam does not work with the Calais immigrants. Sam’s work is with asylum seekers who are already in the U.K. They met at the therapist's office. Kwame told me that he was just sitting there, dreading his session, and then Sam walked in and everything seemed a little brighter all of a sudden,’ Linka stops, and stares at the cup in her hand. ‘I envy them,’ she admits, looking up at Wheeler. ‘They’re so happy, and Kwame seems so... so  _ healed  _ and...’

 

Wheeler steps into the kitchen, gathering Linka for a moment in his arms and holding her to him. She can feel the beat of his heart under her ear and she closes her eyes, momentarily lulled into calm.

 

‘I’m glad he’s happy,’ Wheeler whispers, kissing her temple before releasing her. She looks up at him, and nods. 

 

‘He is,’ she tells him. ‘They have a little girl. Haya. They adopted her from Syria.’

 

She finds a kettle and fills it with water, putting it on to boil. Wheeler is staring at her, and she looks at him curiously.

 

‘What?’ She asks self-consciously.

 

‘Nothin’, it’s just...’ he shrugs. ‘Seeing you all domestic like this, in my kitchen... it feels strange. A bit like a memory, or maybe a dream. I’m sorry... it’s just all so...’

 

She gives him a half-smile. ‘I think I understand,’ she tells him. 

 

Wheeler clears his throat as she mixes milk into their tea. ‘So... why did they adopt?’ 

 

‘They wanted a child,’ Linka replies absently. ‘They are both settled with good jobs, married, and splitting their time between the U.K and France. They had love to give, and wanted a child to give it to.’

 

Wheeler nods. ‘Yeah, but why not have a baby the old-fashioned way? Or did they... did they struggle?’

 

At that, Linka puts the tea down and turns to stare at him. Two thoughts, one unpleasant and the other downright unpalatable, strike her in that moment.

 

‘Wheeler...’ she begins, and he reaches for a tea.

 

‘Some couples struggle, you know, is all I’m saying,’ he says, his eyes downcast, and Linka feels her throat go dry.

 

‘Did you and... did you and Trish... uh, struggle?’ She asks, and Wheeler’s flushed face is all the confirmation she needs. ‘Oh,’ she exhales. ‘Oh,’ she says again, feeling a dart of pain.

 

It must show, because he’s by her side in an instant. ‘Look, Lin, I-’

 

‘Please,’ she stops him. ‘Please... just... just do not. Do not try and explain this to me. Some things you cannot explain away. You can drift into a relationship and I suppose you can drift into a marriage. But parenthood... you cannot just drift into becoming a father and...’ she stops.

 

There is nothing more she can think to say.

 

Wheeler strokes an errant hair from her forehead. ‘The baby was Trish’s idea. Our marriage was already struggling and I guess she thought a baby would be a quick-fix. But it didn’t happen and then it didn’t happen with help and, Linka, you have to believe me, I’m glad it didn’t. When I do have a kid I want to  _ really  _ want it. And in a healthy relationship with a woman I truly love, you understand?’

 

‘But you cannot...?’ Linka begins, before trailing off with embarrassment.

 

‘I’m okay,’ he replies, understanding her. ‘The issue was Trish.’

 

‘Oh,’ Linka exhales again, before stepping away from Wheeler and the incredible warmth emitting from his body.

 

‘Lin-’ he starts, but she turns away, picking up her tea and blowing on it. When she turns back, she looks at Wheeler sceptically.

 

‘How much do you know about Kwame, James?’

 

The change in topic must surprise him, because he opens his mouth. ‘Umm...’

 

‘How much do you know about Sam?’

 

He sips at his tea. ‘Umm, I guess the basics? They met, married, and she sounds real nice...’

 

Linka frowns. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a picture of them?’

 

Wheeler shakes his head. ‘No? I mean, Kwame and I weren’t exactly in touch for years and the wedding invitation just had all these... were they leaves? Anyway, not a picture of the couple, and...’

 

‘Ah,’ Linka almost smiles at him. ‘James,  I take it you do not know then that Sam is a man?’

 

Wheeler’s mouth drops open. He stares at Linka for a long moment.

 

‘You’re fucking with me, right?’

 

She shakes her head. ‘No.’

 

‘Kwame... Kwame’s gay?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

Wheeler gapes at her. ‘What... I mean... when did this...  _ how?’ _

 

Linka shakes her head. ‘It is not my story to tell you, James. You must ask Kwame himself. But he began to realise... certain  _ things  _ when we were all still Planeteers.’

 

She leaves the kitchen and the open-mouthed Wheeler behind her, sitting on his sofa and drinking her tea. After a few minutes, Wheeler follows her, sitting next to her.

 

‘Fuck, I gotta call him,’ Wheeler says, letting his head settle on the cushion and turning to look at her. He grins. ‘I guess they would have struggled to have a baby the old-fashioned way then, hey?’

 

She laughs. ‘ _ Da,  _ no, I mean yes, they would have struggled,’ she giggles again, her own head dipping back on the cushions. ‘I cannot wait to see him and tell him about this conversation.’

 

‘Don’t you dare,’ Wheeler groans. ‘Not till I’ve had a chance to talk to him first, okay?’

 

‘Okay,’ she agrees.

 

For a moment they sit in silence, and Linka closes her eyes tiredly. When she opens them, Wheeler is staring at her.

 

‘What is it?’ She asks.

 

‘Nothin’. Just that I like having you here, like this.’

 

She closes her eyes again at the memory she knows he’s trying to bring to the surface.

 

‘Lin, Babe..’

 

‘I’m not ready,’ she replies, her eyes still closed. 

 

‘That’s okay,’ he exhales next to her. ‘For you, I can wait forever.’

 

They sit in silence again. 

 

‘Tell me about Russia. What’s going on there?’ He asks abruptly, and she opens her eyes.

 

‘Where do I start?’ She says with a sigh. ‘There are so many problems in Russia... corruption, an over-dependence on oil, a lack of infrastructure...’

 

‘No,’ Wheeler shakes his head. ‘I meant with you and Russia.’

 

She sighs again. ‘Oh. Let me give you the... how do you say it? York Notes version?’

 

He nods.

 

‘I have become known as a political opponent of Putin. I dislike his government and am vocal in being so,’ she explains awkwardly. ‘I also hack into Russian servers for information and try to prevent them from hacking into UK mainframes. I also do, um,’ she pauses, wondering just how much she should reveal. But Wheeler’s face is open and his eyes are earnest, and she decides to trust him. ‘I suppose you would say I do some technically illegal operations against the Russian government, mainly computer based hacking, some dark web interactions. The UK government turn a blind eye, be sure I pass on my findings, but the Russians do not like me and my actions. I have been declared an enemy to my birth nation and they have stripped me of my passport,’ she shrugs, as though it is no matter. She’s had a day to process this news and the initial pain has receded into a dull ache. ‘At least,’ she reflects bitterly, ‘At least now Volkov might finally leave me alone.’

 

‘Volkov?’

 

‘Mmm,’ Linka muses. ‘Former KGB agent. Works for Putin now. He’s been... interested in my actions for some time now. Following me. Turning up at airports through which I travel. Even,’ she swallows. ‘Even visiting Mishka.’

 

‘Shit,’ Wheeler exhales.

 

‘Yes, indeed,’ Linka replies tiredly, and then, ‘I do not want to talk about this anymore.’

 

‘You and I,’ Wheeler remarks slowly, ‘don’t wanna talk about anything much, do we?’

 

‘It all hurts too much,’ Linka replies instantly, and he nods.

 

‘Might hurt less if we get it all out there, is all I was thinking.’

 

‘No,’ Linka shakes her head. ‘No... I’m tired of thinking. I’m tired of talking.’

 

‘Well, if you don’t want to talk, what do you want to do? You and I were only ever good at a few things when we were alone together, and you just dismissed one of ‘em, babe.’

 

She smiles. ‘And I don’t suppose you have any eco-villains for us to fight?’

 

He grins back. ‘Sorry, babe. I’m fresh out.’

 

She laughs, and Wheeler finishes his tea, putting his empty mug on the table. ‘Okay. You wanna watch a movie or something?’

 

‘No,’ Linka stands, stretching out her body and pretending she doesn’t see Wheeler’s eyes lingering on her curves as she does so. ‘No. I think I want to sleep.’

 

‘Right,’ he says, but not before Linka notes the flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

 

He wants more time with her.

 

And she wants more time with him.

 

But not the time they’ve been having. Not this painful trawl through the past.

 

She makes a decision, then and there. 

 

‘James?’ she says slowly, and his eyes brighten. 

 

‘Yeah?’

 

‘There was...well, there was one other thing we did when we were alone together that we were good at,’ she says, and Wheeler swallows heavily.

 

‘Yeah, there was,’ he agrees.

 

Linka extends her hand to his, pulling him to his feet and leading him through to his bedroom.

 

‘Babe,’ he says thickly, when she wraps her arms around him, holding him and pretending it’s ten years ago.

 

‘Yes?’ 

 

‘I missed you.’

 

She exhales happily, holding him closer.

 

‘Yankee... I missed you too.’

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Kwame next chapter.


	10. Eviction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of the end for Wheeler and Linka in the past, while simultaneously being a turning point for Wheeler and Linka in the present.
> 
> Somebody might need to send an intervention as this fic just gets angstier and angstier and we haven’t even got to the crux point.

_ They’re on their way to see Gaia when she calls them both to the crystal chamber. Wheeler looks at Linka warily, and she stares back. Can Gaia feel it, he wonders? Does she know? Their minds are made up, they’re done with this. Perhaps Gaia can sense the shift in their allegiance, from her and their calling to each other. Perhaps she disapproves. Perhaps she’ll try and talk them out if it, keep them here on Hope Island. _

 

_ They’re ready for disapproval and dismay, if they’re honest. They’re ready to be told that they’re too young, that a girl of barely twenty and a boy of just twenty-one aren’t ready for such a big commitment. They’re ready to be told to reconsider, to remember how hard life can be away from their Planeteer bubble. _

 

_ But they’re also ready to fight for what they want. With the same earnestness they’ve given to their fight for the planet, they’re ready now to fight for each other and a shared future.  _

 

_ ‘It’s you and me,’ he tells Linka fervently, kissing her on the cheek and squeezing her hand. _

 

_ ‘We should go to her,’ Linka replies, her voice a whisper. ‘She loves us and-’ _

 

_ And Wheeler cradles Linka’s face in his palms. _

 

_ ‘It is you and me, right?’ He asks, hating himself for the panic he feels. _

 

_ Linka’s face softens beneath his fingertips. ‘Da, lyubov' moya, eto ty I ya seychas I navsegda,’ she whispers in Russian, kissing his hands, and he feels calm flood through him. _

 

_ ‘Navsegda?’ he asks. _

 

_ ‘Forevermore,’ she replies, almost shy, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheek. He exhales in relief, kissing her hard. _

 

_ ‘Navsegda,’ he repeats, pressing his temple to hers.   _

 

_ They walk into the chamber together, hands held tight, full of trepidation and fear of reprisal. But Gaia is their mother, and she greets them both with open arms and a soft smile. If she knows of their intentions she says nothing, and instead places a consolatory hand upon Wheeler’s arm. _

 

_ For she does not have good news. _

 

_ It's his father, she says. He’s dead. _

 

_ And Wheeler simply nods, because of course. Of course his father is dead. He drank and smoked and did God knows what else to his bloated, abused body. Heavy, was Jim Wheeler. Heavy in his body and heavy with his fists and heavy in his drinking, and was it his heart, or his lungs, or-? _

 

_ An aneurysm, Gaia answers kindly. An aneurysm, in his sleep. _

 

_ ‘He did not suffer,’ she tells him, and he nods, feeling numb all over. ‘Go home,’ she instructs him. ‘Be a comfort to your mother.’ _

 

_ He looks up at her, opening his mouth to speak but finding he has no voice.  _

 

_ Gaia’s eyes dart to the girl at his side. ‘Take Linka with you,’ she says, and with a small sigh: ‘Have comfort of your own.’ _

 

_ When they emerge, the daylight bright and offensive to their eyes, the others are waiting. Kwame makes small noises of sympathy, while Gi cuddles him tightly. Wheeler allows their affection, blinking back tears, gripping tight to Gi’s waist, while Linka stands behind, in the shadows. In front of the others she is his friend, not his lover, and so she bites her lip and hangs back, uncertain and awkward. But even this small distance between them is too much, and Wheeler blindly reaches for her, disentangling from Gi to find her fingers. _

 

_ They go to his cabin, ostensibly to pack, the other Planeteers giving understanding nods as they depart. But no sooner is his door closed than Wheeler is upon Linka, pulling at her clothes and kissing her. He isn’t gentle and he isn’t loving. He’s rough and demanding and bruising and he knows she likes it, feeling her curl around him submissively while biting her lips with pleasure. Even in his grief, Wheeler revels in her body’s response to his, fucking her with a punishing pace, and it isn’t long before he’s coming hard inside her, crying out loudly and gripping her hips. _

 

_ Afterwards, she holds him while he cries on her shoulder. _

 

_ Ma-Ti comes to see him that evening, knocking on Wheeler’s door just as the sun is setting. Wheeler ushers him in without a second thought, only pausing when he sees Ma-Ti’s eyes take in the state of his cabin. Linka’s clothes lie scattered across the room, while the sheets of the bed are tangled and damp. Wheeler himself is shirtless, a towel around his waist, and they can both hear the run of water from the bathroom where Linka is showering. Wheeler had every intention of joining her, of running his hands over her body and licking at her wet skin, before Ma-Ti came to the door and- _

 

_ ‘Uh, look, Ma-Ti...’ he begins, flushing a dull red, but Ma-Ti waves his hands. _

 

_ ‘No, explanations are not necessary,’ the young man says, but he gives Wheeler an impish grin. ‘The evidence speaks for itself.’ _

 

_ ‘We were gonna tell you all soon,’ Wheeler says, apologetically, but again, Ma-Ti shrugs. _

 

_ ‘It is not our business,’ he tells him. ‘I am just glad you have each other.’ _

 

_ ‘Right,’ Wheeler replies, adjusting his towel, still feeling desperately awkward. ‘Umm, you wanna sit or somethin’?’  _

 

_ But Ma-Ti shakes his head, gazing once more at the dishevelled state of his room. _

 

_ ‘I won’t, if it's all the same to you.’ _

 

_ ‘Right, okay.’ _

 

_ Ma-Ti sighs. ‘I came to offer my sympathies, Wheeler. I know that you and your father had a difficult relationship, but he was still your father, and I am sorry for his passing.’ _

 

_ Wheeler stiffens, numbness seeping through him again at his father’s name. _

 

_ ‘He was a lousy Dad,’ Wheeler shrugs. ‘I’m only going home for my Mom.’ _

 

_ Ma-Ti nods, even if he hears the falsity of Wheeler’s words. ‘I should like to send her a card, if that is alright by you?’ _

 

_ ‘Sure thing, whatever you like, little buddy,’ Wheeler shrugs again. _

 

_ ‘What was his name?’ Ma-Ti asks, and Wheeler freezes. _

 

_ ‘Why?’ _

 

_ ‘For the card. I cannot just write, ‘Dear Mrs. Wheeler, please accept my sympathies on the loss of Mr. Wheeler,’ can I now?’ _

 

_ Wheeler nods, his neck stiff. ‘My Mom is Angie. And my Dad is... was Jim...’ he swallows hard. ‘Uh, James, I mean.’ _

 

_ Ma-Ti looks at him keenly. ‘You were named for your father?’ _

 

_ Involuntarily, Wheeler clenches a fist. ‘Call it a New York Irish tradition.’ _

 

_ ‘Oh.’ _

 

_ ‘That’s why I’ve always gone by Wheeler. I was Jimmy once, little Jim to his big Jim, or at least I was until I was old enough to have any say in the matter.’ He paused. ‘I hate being called by my name, most of the time.’ _

 

_ ‘Linka calls you James, sometimes,’ Ma-Ti remarks, and Wheeler softens.  _

 

_ ‘Yeah, she does. And she’s the only one I’m ever going to let do that. She was named for her father too, you know- Yelena Mikhailovna. Names are important in Russia, it's different there. So, if calling me James makes her happy, then I’m gonna let her. Besides, the way she says it...’ he exhales, deep and cleansing. ‘The way she says ‘James’... it’s just for me, you know? It’s not Jim my deadbeat Dad, or Jimmy the fucked up kid, or James the fucked up teenager. With her, it's not even Wheeler, Planeteer,’ he smiles. ‘With her, it’s just James. Me.’ _

 

_ ‘She loves you,’ Ma-Ti says kindly, and Wheeler lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. _

 

_ ‘Yeah, she does. I don’t know why she does, but she does,’ he grins.  _

 

_ ‘Because you are a good man,’ Ma-Ti smiles back. He lays a hand on Wheeler’s shoulder, patting it companionably. ‘And soon you and Linka will have your Colorado, and...’ Abruptly, he frowns.  _

 

_ ‘Little Buddy?’ Wheeler asks, concerned. _

 

_ ‘It’s nothing,’ Ma-Ti replies, though his face is still dark. ‘I sense change coming is all,’ he adds. ‘Loss. Grief. Separation...’  _

 

_ Wheeler relaxes. ‘You’re just picking up on my feelings about my old man,’ he shrugs.  _

 

_ Ma-Ti nods. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. It doesn’t matter.’ _

 

_ They both hear the water in the bathroom suddenly turn off, Linka’s voice calling out. Wheeler jumps, but Ma-Ti only grins, walking to the door.  _

 

_ ‘I can see myself out. Your lady needs you,’ he says, and Wheeler resists the urge to smack him playfully over the head. _

 

_ ‘One day you’ll understand,’ Wheeler warns him, but his face is teasing. ‘One day you’ll meet a girl and...’ _

 

_ But Ma-Ti’s face inexplicably darkens. ‘No. No, that is not for me,’ he says, and Wheeler stares at him. _

 

_ ‘Ma-Ti...’ _

 

_ ‘Wheeler,’ Ma-Ti says, still serious. ‘Allow yourself to grieve, but do not blame yourself. It is not your fault.’ _

 

_ Wheeler stares at him.  _

 

_ ‘Ma-Ti, you’re kind of freaking me out here. You want me to call Gaia or...’ _

 

_ But like a storm clearing, Ma-Ti’s face suddenly relaxes, and he laughs, shaking his head. _

 

_ ‘No. No, all is well, my friend. I am sorry about your father, is all.’ _

 

_ ‘I’m sorry about him too,’ Wheeler confesses. ‘But probably not in the way I should be, at this point.’ _

 

_ When Ma-Ti is gone, Wheeler joins Linka in the bathroom. She’s brushing her hair in front of the mirror, a towel around her body and her curls clinging to her neck, and he stares at her for a minutel, lost for words that she’s here and that she’s his. _

 

_ ‘What is it, Yankee?’ She asks, catching his eye. _

 

_ ‘Lose the towel,’ he orders, his voice low and throaty. _

 

_ She puts down the brush and turns to look at him, licking her lips. She complies, dropping the towel gracefully into a heap at her feet, and leans back against his sink. _

 

_ ‘Well?’ She asks quietly, and he steps forward, crowding her body, while turning on the shower next to her. _

 

_ ‘Yankee, I am already clean-’ she begins to protest, but her words die in her throat when he ducks his head to her chest, sucking one nipple into his mouth while gripping the other with his hand. She moans, her head falling back, and he releases her with a grin, dropping his own towel. _

 

_ ‘Guess I’m going to have to get you all dirty again then, hey?’ _

 

_ *** _

 

_ They have sex frequently over the next few days. A good psychologist would have told Wheeler it was an evasion of grief, or perhaps an affirmation of life, but there are no good psychologists on Hope Island and anyway, he’s too young to give a shit about psychology when he’s so in love and the sex is this good. _

 

_ So it's a shock to them both when they arrive at his apartment in Brooklyn and his mother directs him to his room, leaving Linka standing awkwardly and alone in the hall. _

 

_ Angie looks at Wheeler with dismay, her voice low and slurred even though it's only eleven am. _

 

_ ‘I can’t believe you brought that fucking Ruski here with you,’ Angie snarls. ‘You can stay, but get the Soviet bitch out of here.’ _

 

_ Wheeler’s fists clench and he feels his blood heat with rage. _

 

_ ‘Don’t talk about her like that,’ he says, his voice hard, and his mother rolls her eyes. _

 

_ ‘So she’s why Trish hasn’t heard squat from you in months,’ Angie remarks, looking him up and down distastefully. ‘I like Trish, Jimmy, and-’ _

 

_ ‘I like Trish too,’ he says honestly.  _

 

_ His mother gives a half-smile. ‘Good. Well, get rid of the Soviet out there and-’ _

 

_ ‘Mom,’ he carries on, standing taller. ‘I like Trish-‘ _

 

_ ‘Good, well, like I said-’  _

 

_ ‘- but I love the Soviet. I’m going to marry the Soviet, in fact.’ _

 

_ His mother’s face pales. ‘The hell you are,’ she exhales harshly. ‘She doesn’t belong here, Jimmy.’ _

 

_ He chooses to ignore that. ‘Look, it’s simple: I love her. And if she can’t stay, I won’t stay.’ _

 

_ He sees two emotions battling for dominance across his mother’s face: her xenophobia and desire to be right struggling against her loneliness and desire for company. In that moment, he pities her. _

 

_ Finally, she shrugs. _

 

_ ‘She sleeps on the sofa,’ she orders, and he gives a laugh, bitter and disbelieving. _

 

_ ‘She sleeps in my room,’ he tells her.  _

 

_ ‘You aren’t fucking your Ruski slut under my roof,’ Angie huffs, and Wheeler shakes his head at her in disgust. _

 

_ ‘You know what, Mom? I’ll respect your rules so long as you respect mine,’ Wheeler replies coolly. ‘Be civil to her. Don’t call her a Ruski, or a Soviet, or a bitch, or a slut. She has a name: Linka.’ _

 

_ ‘Some name,’ Angie replies, but Wheeler notes she doesn’t argue with him. _

 

_ ‘I’ll take the sofa,’ Wheeler says as he leaves the room. ‘You don’t have to be nice to Linka. All I’m askin’ is that you’re civil to her.’ _

 

_ He finds Linka in the hall, wrapping his arms around her tightly and breathing in that smell of hers that he loves. That hint of Hope Island, that scent of her perfume, and the calming flavour of her skin.  _

 

_ ‘Come on, babe,’ he breathes into her ear. ‘Let’s get out of here and take a walk.’ _

 

_ ‘Your mother does not like me,’ Linka says, her voice pained, and Wheeler shrugs. _

 

_ ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he reassures her. ‘It’s you and me, remember? We’re the ones who count in this. Navsegda, babe.’ _

 

_ She smiles at his use of her language. _

 

_ ‘Navsegda,’ she agrees. _

 

_ *** _

 

_ The funeral passes in a blur. He shakes hands with the the Catholic priest who buries his father and then with a line of relatives who either don’t or won’t weep for Jim Wheeler. _

 

_ Like he cares. He’d long since stopped believing that his father deserved tears, his or anyone else’s. _

 

_ His mother produces Trish at the wake and Wheeler shoots a furtive look at Linka before greeting his ex-girlfriend with a hug. Trish looks good- but then she always looks good, and she’ll always be his first girlfriend and there’ll always be a spark of attraction, no matter what. But he keeps her at an arm's length, fending off her obvious advances, and when she sees Linka across the room her eyes narrow dangerously. _

 

_ ‘You brought Linka with you,’ Trish says softly, and Wheeler nods. _

 

_ ‘Yeah.’ _

 

_ ‘I figured she’d think herself too good for the likes of here,’ Trish replies with a shrug. _

 

_ Wheeler stiffens. ‘She ain’t exactly from fifth avenue herself,’ he says. ‘Just a small mining village in Russia.’ _

 

_ Trish gives a tight smile. ‘How does a mining village dig up something like her? I’ll admit it; she’s very pretty. Probably clever too, right?’ _

 

_ Wheeler’s face softens as he regards Linka fondly. Her corn-blonde hair is tied up in a loose chignon, errant wisps floating around her ears and cheek, while her eyes, today a dark green, flash at him from across the room. _

 

_ ‘Yeah, she is.’ _

 

_ ‘So, which one is she again? Earth or Water or Air or...’ _

 

_ ‘Wind,’ Wheeler tells her.  _

 

_ Trish snorts. ‘Figures,’ they watch as Linka politely laughs at a joke that, in all honesty, she probably doesn’t understand. ‘All airs and graces, isn’t she?’ _

 

_ ‘Nah,’ Wheeler’s reply is quick, ‘she’s beautiful inside and out.’ _

 

_ Trish looks at him sharply. ‘Still got a thing for her, haven’t you?’ _

 

_ He nods. ‘Now... and always.’ _

 

_ At that moment Linka smiles at him, and for Wheeler, the rest of the room melts away. He smiles back at her, tiredly and longingly, and he feels Trish deflate a little beside him. _

 

_ ‘You wanna tell me anythin’, Wheeler?’ She asks, nodding towards Linka. _

 

_ It’s his turn to sigh. ‘Look, Trish-’ _

 

_ But his mother swoops in at that moment, pulling Trish into an enormous bear-hug and making sure everyone sees her doing it. ‘Trish, baby,’ she practically purrs, before pulling Trish over to a gaggle of Wheeler’s relatives and hugging her again. ‘This is Trish. She’s an artist. My Jimmy’s going to marry her one of these days.’ _

 

_ Wheeler feels himself go pale, and he looks up to see Linka leaving the room. _

 

_ He immediately stands and goes to follow her, but a hand, small and beseeching, pulls at him. _

 

_ ‘Wheeler,’ Trish says firmly. ‘Let her go.’ _

 

_ But Wheeler shakes his head. _

 

_ ‘No, I gotta bring her back-’ _

 

_ ‘Wheeler,’ Trish looks at him with wide eyes. ‘What the fuck are you doing? She doesn’t belong here.’ _

 

_ Momentarily, Wheeler is livid. _

 

_ ‘Is this about her being Russian again? Because I’m fucking sick of-’ _

 

_ But Trish only crosses her arms at him. ‘No,’ she says, her voice hard. ‘This is about her being a Planeteer. You can’t just run off to a new life and then expect that new life to blend in with your old one, no questions asked. This is Brooklyn, and this is you. She belongs on Hope Island and she belongs in Russia but she doesn’t belong here. You shouldn’t have brought her here. This isn’t her.’ _

 

_ He stares at Trish for a moment, uncomprehending, although a trickle of dismay runs through him, her words planting a seed of doubt. Because somewhere, underneath his anger and grief and disbelief, Trish’s words strike a chord. _

 

_ Linka doesn’t belong here. _

 

_ But then, maybe neither does he. _

 

_ ‘Then I don’t belong here either,’ he says weakly, but Trish shakes her head at him, her eyes full of sorrow. _

 

_ ‘This will always be you,’ she tells him, waving to the room, and to the window where New York lies beyond. ‘You’ll always belong here. But she never will.’ _

 

_ Trish sighs, pulling on his hands until he’s sat beside her again, his legs shaky. _

 

_ ‘Stop searching outwards, stop thinkin’ everything else is better than what you got right here. You’re better than your Dad already, Wheeler. You always were. And you don’t need her to prove it.’ _

 

_ ‘Is that what you think I’m doing? Using her to prove I’ve moved beyond all this,’ he stutters. _

 

_ Trish shrugs. ‘I just think you need to ask yourself if you love her, or if you just love the idea of her. Cause I’ll admit it, she looks like Little Miss perfect. Don’t mean she’s little miss perfect for you though. Think about it, Wheeler.’ _

 

_ But at that moment, he can’t think about it.  _

 

_ He’s fairly certain he’ll be sick if he does. _

 

_ *** _

 

_ He breaks his mother’s rule, sneaking into his bedroom later that night and curling up around her.  _

 

_ Her pillow is damp with tears, and he kisses her everywhere his lips can touch her skin. _

 

_ ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he whispers between kisses, his own cheeks damp with sudden tears. _

 

_ ‘I do not like it here,’ Linka admits. ‘I do not belong here,’ she adds, her voice a broken whisper. _

 

_ ‘No, no, no...’ Wheeler kisses her again. ‘No, don’t say that. Don’t. You belong with me, and I belong with you,’ he tells her fiercely. ‘Navsegda, right?’ _

 

_ She nods, submitting to his hands and mouth, but it’s different this time. He cries while making love to her, whispering pleas into her hair and mouth and ears.  _

 

_ Don’t leave me. Stay with me. I need you. I love you. I’m half a man without you.  _

 

_ Afterwards, she holds him like she always does, but still, he feels a distance between them. _

 

_ And he lies awake into the early hours, unsure of what all this means. _

 

_ *** _

 

When Wheeler wakes, he feels good.

 

It’s early evening, six or seven by his reckoning, and Linka lies asleep in a ball at his side. She’s naked, her breaths deep and even, and he rolls onto his side to stare at her. 

 

Blonde hair, a silken mass on his pillow. Dark lashes fluttering lightly against pale cheeks. Lips, still slightly swollen from his kisses. 

 

He grins, happiness flooding through him. 

 

Because this, he decides, is a second chance. The second chance, he suddenly realises, that he’s been desperately searching for all these years.

 

He needs Linka next to him like he needs air to breathe and food to eat. It’s a realisation that is at once so simple and yet profoundly affecting that he has to close his eyes and breathe deeply.

 

He needs her.

 

She belongs here, next to him.

 

She always has, and she always will.

 

He swings his legs out of bed, watching fondly as Linka stirs, rubbing her eyes and stretching out her long legs, which, just a few hours ago, had been wrapped around his waist.

 

He feels desire build within him at the memory.

 

‘Yankee?’ She murmurs, and he bends to kiss her.

 

‘I’m gonna order us some dinner,’ he whispers. ‘Asian or Italian, babe?’

 

‘I do not care,’ she replies, her eyes still closed. ‘I am tired, not hungry.’

 

‘Still gotta eat,’ he shrugs. ‘Trust me, you’re gonna need the energy.’

 

She smiles at that, but still burrows back into his pillows, her eyes closing once more, and he throws on a pair of sweatpants before walking out into the bright light of his hall. 

 

He checks his phone. There’s an irate message from his agent asking why his social media hasn’t been updated in twenty-four hours, and he taps out a quick response: ‘Got a girl here.’

There’s a reply within seconds, a winking emoji followed by ‘leak a pic’ and Wheeler feels himself wince.

 

‘No, it’s not like that,’ he replies, before adding ‘I’ll update Monday’ and then he shuts off his phone entirely.

 

Because fuck his agent, and fuck anyone else who tries to burst this moment he’s been given with Linka.

 

He pulls out his iPad and rattles out a quick Ubereats, a good selection of vegetarian meals Linka can pick at. It’s probably too much food, and he feels a strange moment of guilt, sensing Wheeler the Planeteer standing beside him and shaking his head at his excess. But he brushes the guilt aside easily. Linka’s too thin as it is; he needs to feed her up, he tells himself.

 

He sits for a moment in the quiet of his living room, but he can’t stay still. He’s too pent-up, too full of optimism and joy to be alone. And so he pads back through to his bedroom, sliding back into bed beside Linka and snaking his arms around her. 

 

‘If you sleep all day you won’t sleep tonight,’ he murmurs into her ear.

 

She presses up against him, one hand snaking down between his legs and-

 

And he thinks he could die, in that moment. Die of happiness and pleasure and desire and he looks down at her, into her suddenly alert green eyes and smiles at her.

 

‘I am sure you will find a way to tire me out, Yankee.’

 

‘Tonight, and every night from now on,’ he chuckles, and he feels her smile against his throat. ‘Navsegda, right babe?’

 

She freezes, her body stiffening. But the reaction is so momentary that Wheeler isn’t sure whether he imagines it or not.

 

She makes no reply, opening her legs to draw him closer and as he slides inside her, her head turns to the side.

 

‘This is eviction, Yankee?’ She breathes a question, but her body is hot and clinging and his mind is lost to lust and he can’t think of anything right now other than her and how she feels wrapped around him.

 

‘No, not eviction...’ she whispers, her hands clenching in the sheets. ‘Evasion... I meant evasion...’

 

He covers her mouth with his.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to break with style and do another Wheeler POV next chapter. For reasons.


	11. Desolated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12 chapters was such an optimistic assessment. It’s probably going to be more like 20. *shrugs* However I do know where I’m going with this, and how it’s going to end, so that’s good.
> 
> By the way, it’s rated ‘E’ for a reason.x

Linka sleeps.

 

She sleeps, and she sleeps, and then she sleeps some more.

 

Wheeler’s able to rouse her to eat and drink occasionally, and late on Sunday afternoon he walks her to the shower, washing her hair and soaping her body before wrapping her in a towel. He tries to dry her as best as he can, but it’s awkward with her half-conscious weight slumping against him. She’s half-asleep on her feet by the time he’s done, and he takes her back to bed, tucking her under the covers and dimming the lights. He kisses her softly on the forehead, intending on leaving her to rest, when she pulls on his hand, drawing him back to her. He pauses, taking in her sleepy, half-closed eyes, warm with love and affection, and feels a tremor run through him. 

 

‘Hey,’ he whispers to her, running a hand along her forehead.

 

She sighs. ‘Hello, Yankee.’

 

‘You’ve been sleeping on and off for twenty-four hours now, babe. Should I be worried?’

 

She shakes her head.

 

‘You wanna get up and talk?’

 

‘I do not want to talk.’

 

Now he sighs. ‘We gotta talk sometime, babe. I don’t know about you, but I wanna fix this. Fix you and me, so we can be you and me again.’

 

But Linka only sits up, nuzzling his neck and running her lips over his.

 

‘I do not want to talk,’ she says again. ‘I want to make love, and then I want to sleep.’

 

Somewhere inside Wheeler, a bell of alarm sounds. But it’s muted under a layer of gratitude and a hazy film of lust as Linka sits up, her creamy flesh bare to his appreciative eyes, and pulls him to her. She kisses him gently, her hands running through his hair, and he exhales against her lips. 

 

‘We should talk, babe-’ he begins, but Linka silences him with another kiss, firmer this time, while one of her small hands plays with the waistband of his sweatpants, before burrowing under the fabric.

 

His defences are few, where she’s concerned. Right now, she smells of his soap and his sheets and her mouth is on his, sucking gently on his bottom lip. Her breasts are soft, exposed to him, and he can’t help but moan as he reaches for them, caressing her gently so that she gasps against him. 

 

His tightly wound resolve snaps, and he pushes her back onto the mattress. She opens her legs to draw him closer, and he grinds against her, still kissing her, still groping her, always and irrevocably in love with her. 

 

She makes small, whimpering noises, some Russian, some English, but mostly insensible, lost in translation from their origins in lust and desire.  

 

It doesn’t matter. He knows her. He understands her whatever language she chooses to speak. And he loves it, these breathy sounds, hot on his cheek. He loves hearing her beg for him, plead for him, bargain with him for his body while using hers as collateral. 

 

The friction is good, building steadily within him, and he could come just from this, he knows. But Linka is biting at him, her nails digging into his skin, clearly needing something more. 

 

A memory flares within him, of ropes and bindings and Linka, tied up, completely at his mercy, completely under his control, and falling apart hard underneath him.

 

He breaks their kiss to look her in the eye, although she’s still thrusting up against him, still building pleasure in his abdomen and-

 

‘Stop,’ he tells her, his voice soft but firm. She complies instantly, and he stares at her. ‘I’m gonna hold you down hard, okay?’

 

She nods without hesitation, her pupils blown black with desire, and he feels excitement course through him. 

 

He remembers this game of theirs. 

 

He loves this game. 

 

He always loved this game. Loved playing the role of the hunter, finally catching and taking his prey. 

 

He knows himself, he likes to chase. And he knows Linka, knows how much she likes the drawn-out act of being pursued. 

 

But they both like it when she gets caught.

 

‘Don’t move,’ he orders, standing slowly, feeling her eyes upon him as he pulls the clothes from his body. She stays rock-still and so perfectly submissive that it takes a strong dose of willpower for him not to come, then and there, all over the curves of her hips and soft flesh of her belly.

 

Wouldn’t be the first time that happened though, he muses.

 

But not now, he also tells himself. For Linka, clinging and clearly searching for release, needs something different right now.

 

And they have the rest of their lives to play these games again, right?

 

When he returns to her, he gathers her wrists in his hands, pinning her to the bed and using the weight of his body to keep her still. She moans in appreciation, her body wriggling impatiently against his, and he nudges her nose with his.

 

‘I love you,’ he tells her, abruptly gentle. Her eyes soften, and she licks her lips. ‘I have always loved you,’ he carries on, easing inside her, his movements drawn out and deliberately slow, her breath hitching in her throat. He feels a red-hot surge of pleasure and lets out a moan of his own. ‘Trust me?’

 

It’s a question and a plea all at once, and she nods, biting her bottom lip so that indentations are left in the skin. Wheeler feels another surge of desire. She’s trying so hard to stay still for him, just like he asked. Trying so hard to give him the control she carries like a weighted sackcloth in every other moment of her life. 

 

He loves this. 

 

He’s missed this, in fact. Missed giving her relief from the burden she carries while offering pleasure at the same time. Missed feeling the satisfied slump of her body in his arms, worn-out but content, and mercifully free, if only for a few moments, of her indoctrinated need for order and control.

 

He draws back from her, kissing her cheek, before sliding back in, and she gasps in his arms. 

 

‘More-’ she starts to beg, but he tsks at her lightly. 

 

‘Let me do this for you,’ he says softly, and she nods, turning her head to the side. 

 

But he won’t allow that. He needs her eyes on him while he does this. Needs to see her love for him written in curve of her cheek while he fucks her into an oblivion. And so, he uses one hand to wrench her face back to his and begins searching her eyes frantically. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for, and when he sees it, when he recognises that love there, honest and open and true and just for him, he loses the last vestige of his control just as he claims hers.

 

‘Say it,’ he orders, picking up pace so that her body turns to liquid around him. ‘Don’t lie, I see it, say it-’

 

But she fights him, keeping her mouth resolutely still even as he fucks into her hard.

 

‘Say it,’ he says again. ‘I feel it too, so say it. Give me this moment... give us this chance...’

 

Still she remains quiet, and her resolute silence only feeds his determination.

 

‘I’m not gonna hurt you, ever again,’ he whispers into her ear. ‘Navsegda, right babe? Say it, just say it...’

 

She cracks, her body arching upwards just as her lips part, the words he’s been longing for rushing from between them like the gust of wind she once encapsulated. 

 

‘Yankee,’ she cries out softly, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’

 

That’s all it takes. He forces her wrists down again, letting himself go completely and taking her with him. His behaviour is animalistic, primitive even, but her response is enthusiastic and it isn’t long before she cries out beneath him, the rippling heat of her body likewise pushing him over the edge. He comes inside her with a shout, before releasing her wrists, his fingerprints bruised into her skin, the flesh tender and red. He kisses the marks before rolling off her, but wrenching her with him so that she is curled up against his side, hot, damp with perspiration, but his.

 

He exhales shakily, holding her close. Her eyes are fluttering closed, and he knows she wants to sleep. Knows how tired she must be, how exhausted. She isn’t this thin for no reason, he realises.

 

But he needs to say something. Needs to ask the question that’s been sitting in his heart for years now, like a lead weight of pain and regret.

 

‘Did you love him?’ He whispers quietly, into the warm still of the room.

 

She sighs in his arms. ‘Who?’ 

 

‘Your boyfriend. Doctor Cox, the one I saw you with... did you love him?’

 

‘Wheeler-’

 

‘Look, I’m not going to... react badly,’ he tells her. ‘I just... I need to know. I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. I just...’

 

She shifts closer to him, one of her fingers running along the length of his rib, tracing the bone from his waist to his heart. ‘I tried,’ she replies. ‘I wanted to love him. I wanted to marry him, and have children with him, and not be alone.’

 

He swallows hard, her words like a knife through his soul. 

 

‘But that would have been the wrong thing to do,’ she carries on. ‘Because I did not love him, not really, and marrying him would have been easy in some ways, but more difficult in others.’

 

‘Were you waiting for me?’ Wheeler asks, hope soaking his every word, hardly daring to believe that-

 

‘No,’ Linka replies, her voice abruptly hard. ‘No. You were married. I would never do that. Not even for you.’

 

He closes his eyes. ‘You want to hear somethin’ funny? I married Trish because it was the easy thing to do, and I did it even knowing that I didn’t love her, not really, not like I loved you.’

 

Linka sighs, kissing a patch of skin on his arm. ‘That is not funny at all, Yankee.’

 

‘Just wait till you hear the punchline,’ he continues, with a grim smile. ‘The week before my wedding, I spent everyday waitin’ for you guys to turn up. I said to myself, ‘just one of ‘em, any of ‘em, and I’m outta here,’ like the Planeteers were gonna swoop in and save me from the fucking mess I was makin’ of my life.’

 

At this, Linka props herself up on an elbow, gazing firmly into his eyes. ‘I sent a reply saying I would not be able to attend.’

 

‘Yeah,’ Wheeler exhales bitterly. ‘Yeah, you did. You and Kwame both, ganging up on me with your ‘unable to attends’ like-’

 

Linka throws the sheets back, swinging her body away from his and trying to pull her arm from his. Wheeler swears, holding her tight, pulling her back to him.

 

‘Shit, no, no, don’t go- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, please, babe, please...’ he says frantically, his head resting on her shoulder. 

 

‘You honestly think I was going to attend  _ your wedding? _ ’ Linka spits at him. ‘You wanted me to sit in a room with all your friends, while your mother looked at me like I was... was... Russian filth? She must have been so pleased that you got away from me and made the right choice in the end, yes Wheeler?’

 

Wheeler flushes, and Linka nods sadly.

 

‘She must have been so happy when you married Trish,’ Linka brushes a tear from her cheek. ‘So happy when you ended it with me. And you really wanted me to go? To sit there and watch you marry another woman? And not just any woman but  _ Trish? _ You really wanted me to do that?’

 

‘No,’ Wheeler shakes his head, his voice just as strained. ‘No, I didn’t want you to come to my wedding and watch me do that. I wanted you to come to my wedding and  _ stop me  _ from doing that.’

 

Linka stares at him. ‘I do not understand.’

 

Wheeler collapses back onto the bed, resting a hand over his face. ‘I snuck that note into your invitation, babe, because I wanted you to turn up and stop me.’

 

Linka inhales sharply. ‘What note, Yankee?’

 

He stares at her from between his fingers. ‘What do you mean, ‘what note’? The note with my address... my phone number... I put it into the envelope with the wedding invitation and-’

 

‘I did not see it,’ Linka replies. ‘There was an invitation... but I did not see any note...’

 

Wheeler looks at her sadly. ‘Trish and her Ma did all the invitations,’ he reflects. ‘Got the bridesmaids over... made a real girl’s night of it. The next day I went through them... all three hundred of them... and dug yours out. It’d been sealed up tight and I had to steam it open with a kettle to put the note in, tampering with my own fucking wedding invites like a reprobate. I snuck a note in, with my number and address and ‘ _ please, babe’ _ written on it. I then resealed the invite and waited for you to... well,’ Wheeler sighs. ‘I was waitin’ for you to do something I should’ve done myself.’

 

Linka is quiet, her body still. Wheeler closes his eyes, reluctant to face her. He’s naked, and so is she, but the exposure of his soul to her makes him feel shame, hot and harsh to his core. 

 

Suddenly, Linka is next to him, moving his hand from his face and stroking his fingers with her own.

 

‘I promise you, I did not see that note,’ she tells him. 

 

‘Would you have come, if you had?’ he asks, a pleading note to his voice.

 

She pauses. ‘I do not know,’ she says honestly. ‘With you, now... I am always second guessing myself. When we were the Planeteers, when we were you and me... I did not doubt you, not ever. But after you broke my heart, so horribly, so terribly, I lost faith in you. I lost faith in myself. I told myself, ‘he asked you to marry him, but then said it was a joke... how can you trust anything he says again? How can you trust yourself, your own judgement?’... and you were so cold, so cool...’ with a strangled kind of gasp, Linka breaks off. Wheeler is next to her in an instant, holding her close, rubbing her back.

 

‘I meant it, I meant it,’ he says fervently, ‘I wanted to marry you. I meant it all.’

 

‘You told me you did not,’ Linka replies, her face pale. ‘It was a joke, you said-’

 

‘I only said that to get you to go,’ he mutters, hating himself. ‘You were never goin’ to leave me otherwise.’

 

Linka’s body is soft in his arms, and he feels her relax against him. ‘It does not matter,’ she says suddenly, and there is a hint of decisiveness to her voice which makes him nervous. ‘It is all done, now. It does not matter.’

 

Wheeler feels a flare of panic build within him. Because there is an element of finality to her words, and to this day, which worries him. And suddenly, just as horribly, it occurs to him that tomorrow Linka’s going to go the U.K embassy and get a travel document away from here, and away from him. He can hold her and fuck her and apologise to her all he wants, but there’s nothing here to hold her to him, no promises of a shared future beyond the next few hours. 

 

‘Marry me now,’ he blurts out, and she stares at him. 

 

‘Wheeler-’

 

‘No, listen, marry me, babe,’ he says, more confident now. ‘Tonight even, or tomorrow. You’ll be a U.S citizen and then the Russian government can go fuck itself. You can stay with me and we can be together forever, just like we always should have been.’

 

As he speaks, he can’t believe he hadn’t thought of this earlier. Because marrying Linka, he decides, is not just a good idea, but a great one, and he feels himself fill with a kind of contented peace at the thought of it. In his head, it’s a solution to all their problems, an easy way to fix the gaping hole the past bore into their lives.

 

Marry Linka. Leave New York. Have children. 

 

_ Colorado.  _ Ma-Ti’s voice, as clear as Wheeler remembers it, suddenly sounds in his mind and he feels a shiver run down his spine. Is it approval from beyond the grave? Or only a memory, a promise finally fulfilled, a bargain made good on?

 

Marry Linka. Leave New York. Have children. Colorado. 

 

Wheeler breathes a little easier, feels a weight lifted from his shoulders.

 

But Linka is still staring at him, her face still, her lips unmoving.

 

‘Wheeler,’ she says again, and then, softer, gentler, ‘James. James... you know we cannot-’

 

But Wheeler is indignant. ‘Course we can, babe. It’s you and me. Navsegda, remember?’

 

‘James, I do not think-’

 

But Wheeler stands, pulling his sweatpants on and squeezing her hand. ‘Wait there,’ he tells her. ‘Don’t move. Don’t go anywhere.’

 

Linka nods, watching him disappear into his cupboard, and then return with a box in his hands. He sits next to her on the bed, opening the box gingerly and handing her a small package, wrapped in tissue paper.

 

‘I don’t have a ring for you,’ he says, his voice mournful. ‘But I have this.’

 

He watches as Linka unwraps the tissue paper. When her hand locks around the bracelet within, her face pales. She brings both hands to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears.

 

‘You kept it,’ she whispers, and he nods.

 

‘Since the day you threw it back at me,’ he reflects sadly. ‘Wrapped it up and haven’t let it go since.’

 

Linka takes a shuddery breath, reaching down for the bracelet and handling it gently between her fingers.

 

Four strands of rope, held together by a silver clasp.

 

‘I missed this,’ she tells him, one hand tracing her wrist. ‘Sometimes I would wake in the morning and feel for it, and my heart would stop when I realised it was gone. I was always so sad, so desolated, when I remembered and-’

 

‘You mean devastated,’ Wheeler remarks with a bitter smile. ‘Like me, every time I saw this thing in that box rather than around your arm where it should’ve been.’

 

He reaches out, pulling the bracelet from her fingers and securing it safely to her wrist. 

 

‘That’s better,’ he says with a sigh. ‘That’s right.’

 

Linka nods, but her eyes are still woebegone, her cheeks still streaked with tears. ‘James, look, I...’

 

But Wheeler presses a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t decide anythin’ now, babe. But promise me you’ll think about it, okay? You and me, together forevermore.’

 

‘Navsegda,’ Linka breathes out, and Wheeler nods.

 

‘Navsegda,’

 

She sighs, suddenly turning away from him, laying her head back on the pillow. ‘I’m tired,’ she tells him. ‘I would like to sleep a little more, I think.’

 

‘Sure babe,’ he says, running a hand down her arm. ‘I’ll be here when you wake, okay?’

 

But her eyes are already closed, and she makes no reply.

 

***

 

Three hours later, Wheeler’s cellphone rings. He picks it up on the fifth ring, and smiles when he hears Kwame on the other end.

 

‘Hey, Kwame,’ he grins, filled with the kind of joy that only a man with the woman he loves in his bed can feel. ‘What’s up?’

 

Kwame’s voice is serious. ‘What is up?’ he asks in disbelief. ‘I have not heard from either of you in over a day, Linka is in trouble with the Russian government, marooned in your country and you are asking me  _ what is up?’ _

 

Wheeler shrugs, even though Kwame cannot see the movement. ‘Look, she’s okay, you can relax. She’s been sleeping, mainly,’ he says by way of explanation, and he hears Kwame give a relieved sigh.

 

‘That is... that is good,’ Kwame decides. ‘Linka works too hard, she never rests. These last few months, she has been like a ghost, always working, always busy. I am glad she feels safe enough with you to rest.’

 

‘Yeah,’ Wheeler agrees, thinking of her fondly. ‘She’s been in bed on and off for the last day and a half.’

 

‘She eats though?’ Kwame asks.

 

‘Yeah, I’ve been feeding her when I can,’ Wheeler replies. ‘Take out, mainly. You know how bad New York is for home cookin’ and-’

 

‘Remember she is vegetarian,’ Kwame interrupts, and Wheeler feels a spark of annoyance.

 

‘I know,’ he says. ‘Look, I know you’ve had her for the last ten years, and I haven’t, but I’m gettin’ to know her again and we’re gettin’ along okay. I’m takin’ care of her, Kwame. I really am.’

 

Kwame is silent for a moment, before he gives a deep sigh.

 

‘I know you are,’ he says slowly. ‘But Sam and I, we worry about her. She’s been so alone these past few years. Cut off from Mishka. Cut off from Russia, with only work to sustain her.’

 

Wheeler exhales, long and hard. ‘I’m takin’ care of her,’ he says again, before adding, without thinking it through: ‘I love her, Kwame.’

 

Kwame gives a sharp intake of breath, but says nothing. Wheeler decides to change the subject, before he can be grilled further on that comment.

 

‘Look,’ Wheeler says suddenly. ‘Linka told me about Sam... anyway, I just wanna say that-’

 

‘What did she tell you about Sam?’ Kwame asks abruptly, his voice curious.

 

Wheeler clears his throat. ‘About him being... you know. A him.’

 

‘Ah,’ there is a hint of amusement in Kwame’s voice. ‘You did not know?’

 

‘Nope,’ Wheeler admits. ‘Last I remember, you were all about a particular scientist named Georgie and didn’t at all swing that way.’

 

Kwame laughs good-naturedly. ‘I was but a teenager, old friend. We all were. I admired Dr. Carver... I still do. But even back then, I knew there was something about myself that I could not put a name to. Something inside me, different from you, different from Ma-Ti, that I did not understand. It took many years for me to realise what that was, and to be okay with it.’

 

‘I’m okay with it,’ Wheeler tells him, and he can almost hear Kwame’s smile.

 

‘I decided a long time ago that whatever anyone else thought did not matter, so long as I was happy,’ Kwame replies, ‘But I am glad to hear you say that.’

 

‘I can’t wait to meet Sam,’ Wheeler says. ‘And your little girl.’

 

Kwame pauses. ‘Haya, yes. She is a handful,’ he pauses again. ‘Speaking of Haya, when Linka wakes, will you get her to call me? I need her... advice.’

 

‘Sure, man,’ Wheeler responds. ‘Anythin’ I can help with?’

 

‘No, not unless...’ Kwame sighs. ‘Wheeler, your ring... does it ever... ever light up? Or work?’

 

Wheeler freezes, his phone pressed tight to his ear.

 

‘My ring? You mean...’

 

‘Your Planeteer ring,’ Kwame confirms for him. ‘Does it ever... work?’

 

‘No,’ Wheeler exhales tightly. ‘No. It hasn’t worked since... since Ma-Ti...’

 

‘Same here,’ Kwame cuts in, clearly unwilling to let Wheeler say the words that still hurt them both. ‘For years it has been silent. But yesterday, quite unexpectedly...’

 

‘What?’ Wheeler breathes.

 

Kwame sucks in a breath. ‘Haya found it. She was playing with it. She often plays with jewellery. Linka gave her a jewellery box for her last birthday and..’

 

‘Kwame,’ Wheeler interrupts. ‘Get to it.’

 

‘Haya used my ring,’ Kwame says simply. ‘She was holding my ring. It lit up, and our home shook. She was using it. The power of earth.’

 

‘Fuck,’ Wheeler breathes out. ‘Fuck.’

 

‘Yes, indeed,’ Kwame says. ‘I was hoping to speak to Linka about this.’

 

‘Yeah,’ Wheeler nods, still stunned. ‘It’s times like this I wish Gaia was still around.’

 

‘Me too,’ Kwame agrees. ‘But she told us before she left that one day our rings would work again, when the power of heart chose a new carrier. Remember?’

 

Wheeler feels a flutter of excitement in his stomach. ‘Do you think this means the heart ring has chosen a new... a new person?’

 

‘Maybe,’ Kwame muses. ‘But I tried using my ring, and it would not work. I think... I think my ring has chosen Haya.’

 

‘She’s just a kid,’ Wheeler protests.

 

‘Yes, for now. But perhaps, when she is older, she will wield the power of earth.’

 

Wheeler lets this sink in. ‘Who has the heart ring?’ He asks. 

 

Kwame sighs. ‘Gi took it.’

 

‘Fuck,’ Wheeler breathes out. ‘She’s long gone.’

 

‘Yes. But if the heart ring has chosen a new host, it will find a way to them. Gi will not hold it for long.’

 

‘Who could the ring have chosen, do you think?’

 

Kwame pauses, sighing across the phone line and four thousand miles of ocean. ‘I do not know. Earth has clearly chosen my daughter... but I am the only planeteer with a child. Unless you and Trish...’

 

‘No,’ Wheeler says flatly. ‘No.’

 

‘Gi perhaps?’

 

Wheeler shakes his head. ‘There’s no way of knowing.’

 

‘I will speak to Linka,’ Kwame decides. ‘She might have some ideas.’

 

Wheeler nods but remains silent.

 

‘Get her to call me when she wakes,’ Kwame says. ‘She is... she is definitely okay?’

 

‘Yeah,’ Wheeler smiles. ‘Yeah, like I said, she’s just sleepin’ lots.’

 

‘Well,’ Kwame’s voice is suddenly brighter. ‘So long as she is sleeping well, and not with you, I will have nothing to fret over.’

 

It is meant as a joke, clearly. But Wheeler says nothing, his face turning red, and he hears Kwame give an exasperated sigh.

 

‘Wheeler...’

 

‘Look, you don’t have to worry,’ Wheeler explains. ‘There’s nothin’ here for you to worry about. I’m treatin’ her right, okay?’

 

‘You did not last time.’

 

The words hang heavy in the air, and Wheeler inhales deeply, wondering just how much Kwame knows

 

Probably everything. 

 

‘No, I didn’t. Not last time. But I am this time. In fact...’ he pauses. ‘I’ve asked her to marry me.’

Kwame sucks in a breath. ‘Forty-eight hours,’ he says quietly. ‘I leave you two alone after ten years for less than forty-eight hours, and you’re already sleeping together and getting engaged? Wheeler...’

 

‘She hasn’t said ‘yes’, not yet,’ Wheeler tells him. ‘But I want to marry her, Kwame. I really do. I can’t lose her again. Not now.’

 

Kwame sighs. ‘You, out of all of us, should know that marriage is no way to bind someone to you. I knew I should’ve flown over, the moment Linka was detained. Or that I should’ve insisted Sam go. I knew this, between the two of you, would not go well.’

 

Wheeler straightens, feeling stung. ‘Hey, we’re talkin’, and workin’ things out, Kwame. And I love her, and she loves me. We’re meant to be together. We always were.’

 

‘I do not want to argue with you about this,’ Kwame says, and there is a hint of finality to his voice. ‘You two...’ he sighs. ‘You are a hopeless case, the two of you. Well.. get Linka to call me when she wakes. I have much to say to her.’

 

‘I will,’ Wheeler promises. ‘But I don’t want you upsettin’ her. She’s been through enough.’

 

He hears Kwame laugh. ‘Wheeler?’

 

‘Yeah?’

 

Wheeler hears a hint of a smile in Kwame’s voice. ‘It is good to talk to you again, old friend.’

 

Wheeler smiles. ‘Yeah. Yeah. You too, man.’

 

When he ends the call, he goes back through to his bedroom, sliding into bed next to Linka. He loops a hand around her waist, pulling her to him, and closes his eyes. 

 

Everything, he decides, is going to be okay.

 

He sleeps.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. Who could the heart ring have chosen?


	12. Citizen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write in three act arcs and this is penultimate chapter of act 2. The next chapter will be angst heavy. There’s a few throwaway comments in this chapter that will be VERY important later.

_ They decide the next mission will be their last. _

 

_ It has to be. _

 

_ They can’t do this anymore. _

 

_ They’re lying in a cheap hotel room in Iceland, the Northern Lights playing on the walls around them. Wheeler is running his hands through Linka’s hair, pulling at the kinks and knots, and she sighs in appreciation. _

 

_ It’s been a long week, and she’s tired. As tired as the decor of this depressing hotel. As tired as Gaia looks when she summons them for yet another eco-emergency. As tired as the planet must be of it's destructive human guests. _

 

_ She’s tired, and only Wheeler’s hands on her body keeps her sane. Only the promise of his mouth against hers keeps her awake enough to make it to the next day. He is the promise of a better life, her key to a better future, that keeps her fighting.  _

 

_ Or kept her fighting, at least. Because they’ve decided they’re done with it all. Done with risking their lives and sacrificing their youth. Done with the constant strain of travel, the unsatisfying restlessness of a shifting, nomadic existence.  _

 

_ They’re done. The next mission will be their last. _

 

_ ‘You’re lookin’ battered today, babe,’ Wheeler exhales unhappily, running a finger over the piebald pattern of bruises that decorate her shoulders.  _

 

_ She shrugs. ‘One of Doctor Blight’s ruffians got a little too...’ she pauses, uncertain on how to phrase the unwelcome feeling of a strange man’s hands on her body. ‘A little too close to me,’ she eventually decides, and instantly feels one of Wheeler’s hands stiffen in her hair. _

 

_ ‘Oh, yeah?’ He says lightly, but there is a hidden depth to his voice Linka recognises. He’s furious on her behalf. ‘Want me to kill him? I’d do it for you. Get out there and find him right now, use my bare hands to-’ _

 

_ Linka turns, catching Wheeler’s hand within her own and shaking her head. ‘No,’ she says with a small smile. ‘No. I need you here. There are better things you can do tonight with your bare hands.’ _

 

_ He softens at her touch, at the placating intimacy of her eyes and words. But when grins at her, that lopsided smile that still makes her heart flutter, it’s with a regretful shake of his head. _

 

_ ‘Sorry, babe, but I ain’t layin’ a finger on you tonight,’ he replies, and she stares at him. _

 

_ ‘But...’ _

 

_ ‘Nope,’ he says, more firmly now. ‘Your back looks like you’ve just done five rounds with Mike Tyson. The last thing you need is me manhandlin’ you too.’ _

 

_ She pouts. ‘Who says I need to be on my back so you can ‘manhandle’ me?’ she asks, and he bursts into laughter, kissing the tip of her nose.  _

 

_ ‘Fuck,’ he grins. ‘If six months ago, someone had told me you’d be sayin’ things like that to me, of all people, I’d have told them they were crazy. Or that maybe you were.’ _

 

_ Linka’s face falls a little at his words. ‘Has it really only been six months?’ She asks quietly, and he smiles at her, running a finger under her chin. _

 

_ ‘Best six months of my life,’ he tells her. ‘Only six months that have ever counted for anything.’ _

 

_ She sighs, leaning against him, wrapping an arm around his neck. ‘It is not like you to turn me down,’ she says. ‘Normally you want the sex all the time.’ _

 

_ He laughs again, going back to running a hand through her hair. ‘Nah,’ he replies. ‘I want you all the time. The sex is just an added benefit. One of the perks of the Linka package,’ he pauses, and she can feel him smirking behind her. ‘Besides, you’re one to talk. Who was it that dragged me into that barn in Canada last month again? Oh yeah...’ he places a kiss on her neck. ‘That was you.’ _

 

_ She swats at him playfully. ‘You did not complain at the time.’ _

 

_ He shrugs. ‘Couldn’t. My mouth was busy doin’ other things.’ _

 

_ ‘Yankee-’ she goes to swat him again, but he’s ready for her this time. He grabs her wrists with one hand, holding them firm, before using the other to tickle her waist. She writhes against him, laughing and protesting all at once, but he holds her tight. She tries to twist away, but he shakes his head, tickling her even more, his hand gripping her wrists harder. Once again, she’s reminded of just how strong and reliable this man is, how safe and at home she feels in his arms, and she begins to feel that ember of desire she always carries for him fan into flames. She twists again, but this time it’s only to move her mouth over his, and his hand falls still as she kisses him. He’s distracted, lost in the press of her tongue against his, and she pulls at him, tumbling him onto the bed, the cheap mattress curving under their combined weight. He edges his body closer to hers, pulling at the hem of her shirt, but as she goes to wrench the fabric from her body she winces, and he sits back as though she’s burned him. _

 

_ ‘Sit up,’ he tells her, his voice authoritative. ‘Don’t lie on the bruises. I’m gonna get you some ice for your back.’ _

 

_ ‘I already looked,’ she tells him, still wincing. ‘There is not an ice machine or even a refrigerator.’ _

 

_ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘So this is Iceland. I’ll go outside, grab a handful of snow from the-’ _

 

_ But once more Linka pulls at his hand. ‘Don’t go,’ she pleads. ‘I need you here.’ _

 

_ He sighs. ‘Babe-’ _

 

_ ‘Just lie next to me,’ she asks, and he nods slowly. He moves back over to her, lying her on her front, her arms under her head, before settling next to her, on his side, looking into her eyes, one of his hands on the curve of her hip. _

 

_ ‘I hate this,’ he says. ‘I hate seein’ you like this.’ _

 

_ ‘We will be done soon enough,’ she replies with a sigh. _

 

_ ‘Thank fuck for that,’ he exhales. ‘I just want you to myself now. I’m done sharing you with these fuckin’ eco-villains who wouldn’t think twice about killin’ you.’ _

 

_ ‘One more mission,’ Linka promises, and he runs a hand over her forehead. _

 

_ ‘One more,’ he agrees. _

 

_ Linka bites her lip. ‘Will you miss it?’ She asks him, her voice low, and he closes his eyes for a moment, considering. _

 

_ ‘Nah,’ he finally replies. ‘The only thing I’d ever miss from it all is comin’ with me.’ _

 

_ ‘I will miss the others,’ she confesses, and Wheeler smiles at her. _

 

_ ‘We’ll see them all again,’ he assures her. ‘When we get our first house we’ll have ‘em all to stay,’ he grins at her, abruptly mischievous. ‘I’ll take Kwame and Ma-Ti to the local Hooters, show them both what American girls are made of.’ _

 

_ She rolls her eyes. ‘And what about this Russian girl, Yankee? What will she be doing while you are out... hootering?’ _

 

_ He grins again. ‘My Russian girl will be at home with Gi, waiting for me to get back, our baby on your knee and my dinner in the oven.’ _

 

_ She shakes her head at him, but blushes all the same. ‘Bozhe Moi. What is it you Americans say.... ah yes, ‘in your dreams’, I think it is?’ _

 

_ He nods. ‘You know it. I can’t wait to marry you and knock you up.’ _

 

_ She gazes at him, her eyes hard. ‘After my studies,’ she reminds him, and he smiles. _

 

_ ‘So we spend a few years practicin’,’ he shrugs. ‘That sounds pretty good to me.’ _

 

_ ‘Hmm,’ she replies, closing her eyes, feeling the warmth from his hand spread through the aches of her lower back. _

 

_ ‘You don’t ever think about it?’ He asks her suddenly, and she opens her eyes again. _

 

_ ‘What, Yankee?’ _

 

_ ‘About havin’ a family, you and me?’ _

 

_ She pauses. ‘It is hard to think further than tomorrow, in a job like ours.’ _

 

_ He frowns. ‘That’s what Ma-Ti said.’ _

 

_ ‘It is the truth,’ she says with a small sigh. Abruptly, she sits up on one hand. ‘Why... do you think about it, Yankee?’ _

 

_ ‘Yeah,’ he confesses softly. ‘Yeah, I do.’ _

 

_ She smiles at him. ‘What do you think of?’ _

 

_ Now he’s the one who’s blushing, his cheeks turning a dull red. She smiles at him, running her hand over his arm, encouraging him. ‘Tell me,’ she urges, and he closes his eyes. _

 

_ ‘Just the usual stuff, I guess,’ he replies. ‘A house. A couple of kids...’ _

 

_ ‘Boys or girls?’ She asks, curious now, but he only shrugs. _

 

_ ‘Doesn’t matter. The only details I care about are that it's you and me, together for always. Everything else...’ he waves a hand. ‘Everything else is just background.’ _

 

_ She nestles in close next to him, feeling his breath against her hair, warm and even. _

 

_ ‘You and me,’ she sighs, and leans up to kiss him on the mouth. He responds to her lips lazily, moving slowly against her. ‘You and me,’ she says again. ‘That is what is important. Navsegda, yes? The details will take care of themselves in the future, Yankee.’ _

 

_ She kisses him harder, but he pulls away, giving her a fond glance. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to do, Babe. It ain’t gonna work. I told you. I ain’t layin’ a finger on you tonight.’ _

 

_ ‘Yankee-’ _

 

_ ‘Get some sleep,’ he tells her. ‘I gotta sneak back to my room in a few hours. Wouldn’t mind getting in a few hours next to you before then.’ _

 

_ He turns off the small lamp on her bedside table, but the Northern lights are bright, reflecting off of the hotel’s cheap plaster walls, and the room is bathed with an eerie green glow. Wheeler’s arms circle Linka’s waist, and she feels him fall asleep beside her, the weight of him warm and satisfying on her skin. For a time she watches the lights play upon the walls, before her own eyes close, sleep claiming her slowly. _

 

_ When his alarm sounds, waking them both, he kisses her shoulder. _

 

_ ‘I gotta go,’ he apologises into her ear, ‘or else Kwame and the others will ask awkward questions.’ _

 

_ He hugs her to him, and she feels, through the thin fabric of her sleep shorts, just how hard he is against her. Desire flares through her once again and she cannot help but grind against him, so that he moans, low in her ear. _

 

_ ‘If you do that I might not be able to stop-’ he starts to protest, before she silences him with a kiss.  _

 

_ ‘So do not stop then,’ she whispers in his ear, as she pulls her shorts down, climbing on top of him. _

 

_ Later, after she’s ridden him into an orgasm that made him swear violently, his hands digging into her waist, his hips bucking hard beneath her, he dresses with shaky hands, looking at her with eyes full of both admonishment and wonder. _

 

_ ‘Always gotta have the last word, hey Babe?’ He chuckles, and she smiles lazily back at him. _

 

_ ‘Da, Yankee,’ she replies, ‘potomu chto ya vsegda prav.’ _

 

_ He raises one inquisitive eyebrow. ‘Meaning?’ _

 

_ She grins. ‘Because I am always right.’ _

 

_ He laughs too, before a look crosses his face, a look that falls somewhere between love and fear. He reaches down, wrapping an arm around her and burying his head in her shoulder. _

 

_ ‘Yankee-’ she starts in concern, but he shakes his head. _

 

_ ‘I’m okay,’ he tells her. ‘I’m okay. One more mission, right?’ _

 

_ ‘One more,’ she promises him. ‘One more, and then it is you and me.’ _

 

_ ‘Navsegda,’ he agrees, as he moves to leave her room, pressing a final kiss to her shoulder which lingers on her skin. _

 

_ ‘Navsegda,’ she repeats, watching as he closes the door behind him. _

 

_ *** _

 

Sex, food and sleep. 

 

Sex, food and sleep.

 

For a day and a half, Wheeler provides Linka with all three, so that by the time Monday morning arrives, her body is rested, satisfied and full. 

 

It’s snowing outside and the sky is grey when Wheeler opens his curtains, the morning light making Linka frown, and he dives back into bed beside her, hauling her body against his.

 

‘Fuck it’s cold,’ he complains. ‘Good thing you’re nice and warm, hey babe?’

 

‘I was,’ she mock-argues, trying unsuccessfully to push him away from her. ‘I do not understand it. You were chosen to represent fire, and yet here you are, trying to steal heat from me.’

 

He shrugs, pulling her even closer. ‘So? You’re meant to be wind and yet you’re still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,’ he squeezes her, before kissing her gently. ‘I forgot to switch the heating on last night. That’s why it’s a little cold this morning.’

 

‘You forgot?’ She asks, settling into his arms.

 

He grins. ‘Well... I should say I was a little... preoccupied,’ he runs a hand along the curve of her breast, making his point, and she blushes hard. ‘Sorry babe,’ he kisses her softly. ‘I’ll make sure I turn on the heating tonight.’

 

She stiffens in his arms as his words, so innocuous and lightly spoken, settle in her mind.

 

‘James-’ she begins, but Wheeler squeezes her again.

 

‘I’m gonna take you out tonight,’ he carries on. ‘There’s this great vegetarian place I’ve heard of. It’ll be you, me and a cocktail or three, babe.’

 

‘James-’ she tries again, but the look he gives her is both desperate and pleading.

 

‘Don’t,’ he begs quietly. ‘Don’t say it.’

 

‘James... James... _my_ _Yankee,_ ’ she says, trying to ignore the wounded pain already visible in his eyes. ‘You know I will not be here tonight.’

 

Her words are like a breath of cold air, exhaled heavily into the already frigid room. Wheeler looks at her as though she’s slapped him, his face pale.

 

‘You’re gonna leave me again, aren’t you?’ His voice is immensely sad, his shoulders set in a resigned slump.

 

‘I have to,’ she replies simply. ‘This was never going to be a permanent arrangement, James. You know that.’

 

‘You could still always marry me, the offer’s there,’ he suggests, a hopeful light flaring within him, and she bites her lip.

 

‘James,’ she begins. ‘You know I cannot just-’

 

‘Course you can,’ he argues. ‘We could do it today, babe. Down at the courthouse, just you and me.’

 

She pauses, staring at him.

 

‘And what about my life back in the UK?’ She asks him. ‘Say I marry you, and stay here- not that this is even guaranteed to happen, American immigration might still throw me out- what about my life in Cambridge?’

 

He pulls her close to him. ‘You don’t have to leave your life. I wouldn’t ask that of you, babe. I’ll come to the UK, be with you, if you like.’

 

For a moment, Linka smiles. A spark of hope runs through her, and she feels her heart and mind lighten.

 

_ He will come with her. He really wants to be with her. _

 

‘You... but you would not leave Brooklyn,’ she replies hesitantly, and he sighs, drawing a finger down her cheek, tilting her head until she’s meeting the hot gaze of his eyes.

 

‘I would,’ he says seriously. ‘I can’t let you go again, babe. I can’t go back to the way things were.’

 

‘Yankee,’ she tries to look away, but his hand is firm on her cheek, holding her to him. ‘I have only been here three days. Three days, out of nearly ten years. You will be fine without me,’ she sighs next to him, common sense as always fighting against her emotions for dominance. ‘You have been fine without me, all these years.’

 

He shakes his head, an ugly, disbelieving laugh escaping his lips. ‘I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen, Lin.  _ Seventeen _ . And yeah, I’ve been fine without you. I’m a reasonable guy, I know you can’t always get what you want in life. I’m practical, I’m resilient, so yeah, I’m fine without you. I’ll always be fine without you.’ He stops, running his thumb along her lips, along her ears and down her cheeks. ‘But I don’t want to be just  _ fine _ anymore, babe. I want to be happy. I want to feel everyday the way I feel when I’m with you. I need you like I need air to breathe and food to eat, Lin. I need you.’

 

She smiles again at that, at the depth of feeling so utterly on display for her. ‘Really?’ She asks tentatively, one of her hands curling in his hair.

 

‘Yeah,’ he replies with a grin. ‘You’re everything to me, babe. And I think you feel the same, even if you never say it with words-’

 

‘Of course I feel the same,’ she interjects, almost frantically. ‘Of course I do. I always have. Since the first day I met you... since the moment you first called me ‘babe’... since the moment you first...’ she exhales shakily, smiling at him timidly.

 

‘First what?’ Wheeler prompts her gently.

 

‘Since the moment you first got on my nerves,’ she laughs. ‘It has always been you. It has always been us. We were always meant to be.’

 

Wheeler kisses her fiercely, before putting both hands on her shoulders. ‘So this is it,’ his voice is restrained, almost disbelieving, as he clearly struggles to process the knowledge that his dreams might be coming true, right before his eyes. ‘You and me. We’re doin’ this.’

 

‘Yes,’ she nods happily. ‘Yes, we are.’

 

He exhales heavily. ‘And you’re gonna marry me, right?’

 

‘Yes,’ she nods again.

 

‘I’d like that in Russian too,’ he grins at her. ‘You know, just to be extra sure.’

 

She kisses him, a butterfly press of her lips to his. ‘Da, ya vyydu za tebya zamuzh, ya budu s toboy navsegda.’

 

‘Navsegda,’ Wheeler repeats the only word he understands. ‘Navsegda... forever. I’m holdin’ you to that, babe. I won’t be lettin’ go of you this time, not for anything.’

 

His lips against hers this time are soft, but the intent behind it is clear, and when he deepens the kiss, his hands gliding lower along Linka’s back, she smiles into his mouth.

 

‘I still need to go to the embassy.’

 

He shrugs. ‘I’m comin’ with you. Might as well start the process of applying for my UK visa today. And we need to make you a UK citizen-’

 

‘Subject,’ Linka corrects him. ‘They are a constitutional monarchy.’

 

‘Look at you, correctin’ my English for once,’ Wheeler smiles at her. ‘Okay. We need to make you a UK subject, so that we can marry over there as soon as possible. We can have one of those picture perfect English countryside weddings. Invite all your friends. And Babe, it gets even better: it's too far for my Mom to come, she won’t fly all that way-’

 

‘Yankee-’ Linka begins to admonish him, but he kisses her again.

 

‘Don’t worry, I’ll still invite her. But don’t be surprised if she won’t come.’

 

Linka runs a hand along the length of his chest. ‘I do not need a picture perfect English wedding,’ she tells him. ‘Just you and me. Kwame, Sam and Haya. That’s all.’

 

Wheeler’s eyes brighten with happiness. ‘Yeah, that sounds great. But what about your friends? You don’t want anyone else?’

 

‘I do not really have friends, as such,’ she replies with a shrug. ‘Kwame and Sam have been the only friends I really need. And Richard too, sometimes, but he will not want to come and-’

 

‘Richard?’ Wheeler’s face falls, and he bites his lip. ‘You mean Doctor Cox? Your... your ex-boyfriend? You still see him?’

 

Linka nods, gazing at him steadily. ‘On occasion.’

 

‘When did you last see him?’ Wheeler’s question is instant.

 

‘I do not know,’ Linka thinks. ‘Maybe a month ago? A little more?’

 

‘Right,’ Wheeler replies tightly, and Linka snakes an arm around his shoulders.

 

‘I have just agreed to marry you, Yankee, and you are already jealous?’

 

‘I’ll always be jealous of any man you deem worthy of your time or affection,’ she watches as he gives a stoic shrug of his shoulders.

 

Linka laid a hand against his chest, feeling the thudding of his heart beneath. The heart that she understands is beating solely for her.

 

‘James,’ she begins, even though he refuses to meet her eyes. ‘James, listen to me,’ she pulls at his cheek, brings his eyes to look down into hers. ‘Yankee, I am yours. My time and affection are yours, first and foremost, forever more. Do not be jealous.’

 

He takes a deep breath. ‘It’s just that I love you, so much. And it hurts when I think of anyone else havin’ a piece of you too.’

 

‘I love you,’ Linka sighs in his arms. ‘But you know you will have to share me, from time to time? Kwame and Sam need me. My students will need me. You will have to share sometimes, my love.’

 

He nods slowly. ‘I know,’ he finally exhales. ‘I know. But they’ve had you for ten years. I kinda feel like it's my turn now to have you to myself. Even if only for a little while.’

 

Linka smiles into his eyes. ‘We will have to take a long honeymoon then.’

 

Wheeler’s eyes light up. ‘Yeah,’ he agrees enthusiastically. ‘Yeah, a beach and you in a bikini is just what I need. Hawaii? Or maybe the Bahamas? We could even...’ he swallows. ‘We could even visit Hope Island. If you want to.’

 

She hugs him, laying a head against his shoulder. ‘So long as we are together, it does not matter.’

 

‘You’re right,’ Wheeler nods. ‘You and me, a beach somewhere and then Colorado. Navsegda,’ he breathes deeply. ‘The way it’s meant to be.’

 

For a few moments they hold each other, soaking in each other’s presence and the promises they have just made. It’s quiet, the snow still falling outside, but warm, and Linka knows she could stay like this happily forever. But she also knows that-

 

From outside the room, a loud knocking sounds. 

 

It grows in noise and frequency, and whoever is at Wheeler’s door is clearly desperate to be in. 

 

Wheeler looks at Linka, disentangling from her and pulling on his clothes. And Linka watches him go, feeling an aching sadness when she realises that their time together is over.

 

And she hates that what should feel like a beginning feels more like an ending.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This does have a HEA, I promise. It might not be the HEA expected though.


	13. Flick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t hate me. I know what I’m doing. Still a HEA, I promise.

When Linka walks into Wheeler’s living room, there are two men sitting on his sofa, stiff and uncomfortable in grey, nondescript suits. They glance at her and then at Wheeler, before giving each other a knowing, sideways look. Instinctively Linka flushes, wrapping her arms around her middle protectively, and she looks to Wheeler almost helplessly. But he isn’t looking at her at that moment, instead, his eyes are directed on the men, and Linka sees them both swallow nervously. Because even half-dressed as he is, Wheeler cuts an intimidating figure. He’s standing over the men, clad in only in his sweatpants, his arms crossed tightly over the broad expanse of his chest. His face is set into firm, protective lines, and Linka knows that if either of these men were to try anything, Wheeler wouldn’t think twice about killing them.

 

She suspects the men must realise this too, because they continue to glance from Wheeler to Linka, and then back at each other, in a prolonged display of awkward silence. It’s only when one of the men’s eyes drifts down the length of her bare legs, before flicking knowingly back to Wheeler that she stiffens, caught in a moment of horrifying clarity.

 

She glances down, and instantly sees what these two men must see. She’s only wearing a shirt- Wheeler’s shirt, the one which matches his sweatpants- and it’s clearly obvious what they have just been doing. Her hair is mussed, her lips bruised, and she must look exactly as she feels: blissfully and mind-numbingly fucked out.

 

She shifts her legs, completely mortified, and one of the men clears his throat awkwardly.

 

‘We’re sorry to intrude,’ he finally says, in a clipped, British accent. ‘I’m Thompson, and this is Brody. We’re with British Intelligence.’

 

‘Really?’ Wheeler asks tightly. ‘Got any proof of that?’

 

‘No,’ Thompson replies. ‘We don’t advertise it, normally.’

 

‘We’re here for Miss Orlova,’ the one called Brody chips in. ‘We need to talk.’ He eyes Wheeler warily, taking in his broad shoulders and the thick, ropy muscles of his arms. ‘In private, if that is at all possible.’

 

‘That’s Doctor Orlova to you,’ Wheeler says, his voice hard. He comes to stand by Linka, pulling one of her hands into his and stroking her fingers. ‘And no, it ain’t. Anythin’ you got to say to her you’re sayin’ in front of me, got it?’

 

Linka nods wordlessly, squeezing Wheeler’s hand. The agents glance at each other again, exchanging a look, before turning back to Linka.

 

‘Doctor Orlova, we aren’t here with good news, I’m afraid.’

 

‘That much is evident,’ Linka replies. ‘What is it?’

 

Brody clears his throat. ‘Well, we were given the details of your current predicament early this morning by the British consulate, who were given the details by U.S immigration.’

 

‘Russia has rescinded my passport,’ Linka confirms. ‘They froze all my bank accounts, both in Russia and the U.K. I need the U.K embassy to provide me with an emergency travel document, and...’

 

‘Yes, yes, we’re well aware of the situation,’ replies Brody with an unimpressed, almost dismissive wave of his hand. 

 

‘Well,’ Linka smarts, standing taller. ‘You did not need to come here. I was just getting ready to visit the consulate.’

 

Both Brody and Thompson give her half-nakedness a pointed look yet again, and Linka bites on her lip.

 

‘Actually,’ Thompson intones. ‘That’s why we’re here.’

 

‘Yes,’ Brody agrees. ‘Your visiting the consulate this morning... well, let us just say that it would not have been a wise move.’

 

Linka stares at him. ‘What do you mean?’ She asks, her voice cool.

 

‘Does the name Volkov mean anything to you, Doctor Orlova?’

 

Linka freezes, and she hears Wheeler suck in a deep breath.

 

‘Yes,’ she finally admits. Brody nods.

 

‘He’s been following you for... how long now?’ 

 

Linka swallows. ‘Too long.’

 

‘You’ll know the basics of his story then,’ Thompson interjects. ‘Former KGB, a real hardliner. Has quite the body count behind him.’

 

Wheeler squeezes Linka’s hand, though she hardly feels the gesture. Her fingers are numb, her hand cold, and there is a sickly, queasy feeling to her stomach. 

 

‘I still cannot believe a man like that represents the government of Russia,’ she whispers, and sees a sharp look pass between Brody and Thompson. ‘What?’ She asks them. ‘What is it?’

 

Brody clears his throat, glancing at the hulking figure of Wheeler by Linka’s side. ‘I really would prefer it if we could conduct this conversation alone, Doctor Orlova.’

 

Wheeler stiffens. ‘And I’d prefer it if we didn’t have to have this conversation at all,’ he snaps. ‘But sometimes you can’t get everything you fucking want.’

 

Linka looks up at Wheeler, sending him a silent plea to stay calm. He blinks at her, clearly still on edge, before acquiescing to the quiet request in her eyes.

 

She turns back to the men. ‘What do you know?’ She asks in Russian, testing a theory.

 

‘Lin -’ Wheeler begins, but Brody suddenly smiles, cutting him off.

 

‘He doesn’t work for Russia,’ Brody replies, his Russian perfect. Unsurprised, Linka nods.

 

‘Who does he work for, then? And who do you work for, while we’re being honest?’

 

Wheeler’s hand is like a clamp around her own, but Linka ignores his discomfort. She needs these answers. This is her life, her work, and her freedom on the line, after all.

 

‘Volkov went rogue... about eight years ago now. Whoever he is working for... it isn’t Russia, or any of her associated states.’

 

‘Ah,’ abruptly, Linka sits on the opposite sofa. Wheeler follows her, standing behind her so that she can feel the reassuring warmth of his skin against her back. ‘Brody? Thompson?’ She queries, with a raise of one eyebrow.

 

Thompson licks his lips. ‘Tyomkin,’ he admits. ‘And this is Brusilov.’

 

‘You work for Putin? For Russia?’ Linka asks.

 

‘No,’ Brusilov shakes his head. 

 

‘The British?’

 

Tyomkin shrugs. ‘Let’s just say we work for an independent organisation who have a large investment in the Cold War staying cool for the interim.’

 

Linka sighs, trying to feel surprise, disgust, or fear, but failing miserably at all three. There’s money to be made in war. There’s money to be made in peace. And there’s money to be made somewhere in the middle too. For some, a world in turmoil is a profitable enterprise, and as a Russian, she’s immune to shock where corruption and greed are concerned.

 

‘So,’ she says, her voice even. ‘If Volkov isn’t working for Russia, who is he working for? And why does he have an interest in me?’

 

Brusilov frowns. ‘We aren’t one hundred percent certain. Not yet. But we traced one of his smaller financial transactions recently. It came from an account registered in the Philippines, which in turn came from an account registered in the Cayman Islands, which in turn came from an account which originated in Venezuela.’

 

‘That’s quite the journey for a small financial transaction,’ Linka remarks, and Tyomkin glances at her.

 

‘It was three million American dollars,’ he says.

 

‘Three million?’ Linka’s mouth falls open. ‘But you said it was one his smaller transactions, you said-’

 

Tyomkin shrugs. ‘The amounts he’s been banking usually go into the tens of millions. This particular transaction was small by comparison.’

 

‘Millions. Whatever number you put in front of it, it is still so much money,’ Linka exhales deeply. ‘Where is it coming from? Who is he working for? I still don’t understand...’

 

‘The last transaction was traced to a Barbara Blight.’

 

Tyomkin’s words, spoken bluntly into the quiet of Wheeler’s living room, hits Linka hard in the chest. She feels the air knocked out of her lungs and her stomach drop. She feels Wheeler’s hand, firm and demanding, on her arm.

 

‘Babe?’ His voice is hard. ‘Why the fuck are these guys talkin’ in Russian and why the fuck did they just mention Barbara Blight?’

 

She turns to him, her eyes glassy and unfocused, her hands trembling. ‘I do not know yet, Yankee. I do not know what is going on here.’

 

She’s shaking with fear, her eyes filling with tears. Of all the people in the world, she never wanted to see or hear of Barbara Blight again. She bites down on her lip, hard enough to draw blood, and the urge to vomit is strong. Abruptly, Wheeler reaches over to kiss her forehead, leaning down afterwards to whisper into her ear.

 

‘I got you,’ he says softly. ‘I’m here. I ain’t gonna let anythin’ happen to you, Babe.’

 

She nods, still pale and queasy, trying desperately to push away her nausea. 

 

Wheeler turns to Tyomkin and Brusilov, his fury undisguised, his hands clenched into tight fists.

 

‘Last time Doctor Orlova and I met with Barbara Blight, she had us locked in little glass coffins that were rapidly fillin’ with water. She drowned one of our best friends, right in front of us. So, you had better tell us what the fuck is going on, you hear?’

 

Brusilov stares hard at Wheeler, his face unmoving and impassive. Finally, he gives a resigned sigh.

 

‘It’s our belief that Volkov is working for Barbara Blight. In what capacity, we don’t know. For what purpose, we don’t know. But we do know Volkov has been following the work and life of Doctor Orlova very carefully for many years now.’

 

He looks at Linka, switching to Russian. ‘He has been hacking into government systems in order to make your life difficult. Cancelling your passports, freezing your bank accounts, watching your correspondence.’

 

‘Why?’ Linka asks, her mouth dry. ‘Why me?’

 

‘We don’t know,’ Tyomkin replies. ‘But the last transaction- the three million dollars- came with instructions. It said, and this is a direct quote, Doctor: ‘Capture the wind if you want the rest of the money. I will double the amount if Fire and Earth follow.’’ 

 

‘Wheeler and Kwame,’ Linka whispers. With trepidation, she turns to Wheeler, who is looking at her intently.

 

‘Volkov is working for Barbara Blight,’ she says, her English as shaky as her trembling hands.

 

‘Fuck,’ Wheeler exhales. ‘Fuck.’

 

‘It is our belief that what happened on Friday was a trap for Doctor Orlova,’ Tyomkin adds. ‘Volkov arrived in New York on Thursday. Once he’d hacked into the border database and cancelled Doctor Orlova’s passport, he assumed she’d be arrested and handed over to the proper Russian authority- which, at that point, he’d made himself. He was probably then going to whisk you out of the country.’

 

‘We don’t know where,’ Brusilov interjects, seeing the question on Wheeler’s lips. ‘We don’t have any information on what he planned to do with Doctor Orlova once he had her, or any information on flights he might have booked onwards.’

 

‘Fuck,’ Wheeler swears again, and Linka lays a hand against his.

 

‘The American border agents who recognised you and took pity on you, bringing you here instead of arresting you, in all likelihood saved your life, Doctor Orlova.’

 

‘Yes,’ she agrees, squeezing Wheeler’s hand. ‘Yes.’

 

‘What now?’ Wheeler asks. ‘Linka here hasn’t got access to a passport, or money, or anythin’, really. And she sure as hell ain’t leavin’ here now that I know Blight’s after her-’

 

‘She’s after all of us,’ Linka says quietly, and Wheeler turns to her, shock in his eyes. ‘I am to be... how do you say it? Bait?’

 

‘Bait,’ Wheeler repeats, his voice unusually level. ‘Why though? Why not just bust in and grab us in our beds, or-’

 

But Linka shakes her head, thinking quickly. ‘She doesn’t want there to be any... any scandal, or drama, or news reports. You are well known- if you went missing, there would be questions, accusations and media interest. Kwame has a family, and is well known in immigration circles. If she took you both unwillingly, there would be attention on the two of you, and your movements.’ Linka pauses, looking at Wheeler softly. ‘But if I went missing, taken by a Russian agent, there would be no questions. People would expect it. And if the two of you followed me, quietly and without fuss, there would be no attention.’

 

Brusilov and Tyomkin, listening intently, nod at her words.

 

‘You reckon she wants all the Planeteers together again?’ Wheeler asks Linka seriously. 

 

She nods. ‘Yes. Whatever she is planning, she needs us all.’

 

Wheeler’s face falls into hard and angry lines. ‘Ma-Ti first, now the rest of us.’

 

‘Perhaps.’

 

‘Too bad for her Gi already disappeared off the face of the Earth,’ Wheeler adds, a bitter laugh behind his words. ‘If she wants the remaining Planeteers, she’ll need to find Gi too, and-’

 

‘Wheeler,’ Linka interrupts him, looking at him deeply, reaching up to cup his cheek. ‘In all likelihood, she already has Gi. You know that.’

 

He sucks in a deep breath, and in his eyes Linka sees his reluctance to admit the truth battling with his desire to remain ignorant. She watches as he mentally considers Gi’s absence of many years, her zero contact with any of them, the complete and utter lack of any discernible information about her or her whereabouts. Finally he nods, leaning his face into her hands with a sad sigh. ‘Yeah,’ he admits quietly. ‘Yeah, I know.’

 

She stands, linking her arms around his neck and kissing him. She needs this, and she needs him, just for a moment. His lips are warm against hers, his skin smells lightly of soap and smoke, and she inhales deeply. When their lips part, she turns back to Tyomkin and Brusilov.

 

‘What now?’ She asks them. ‘What do we do?’

 

Brusilov clears his throat, glancing at Linka and Wheeler, still locked in an embrace. ‘You won’t like it,’ he says, a warning tone to his words.

 

‘Try us,’ she replies coolly. Wheeler’s face is stricken with fear and uncertainty, but she stands taller, calm and controlled as always under stress. She keeps her arms wrapped around Wheeler’s neck as Tyomkin begins to speak, laying out plans for their situation.

 

And this position gives her the perfect vantage point to see Wheeler’s face crumple when Tyomkin finishes. She sees his eyes close, watches the sad fall of his chest as he exhales against her, and sees, with perfect clarity, the bereft expression in the depths of his eyes when he opens his eyes again to look at her.

 

‘What do you think?’ Tyomkin asks, and Linka stares deep into Wheeler’s eyes, searching for his thoughts. Wheeler nods, ever-so-slightly so that only she can see it, before his head falls onto her shoulder, holding her close.

 

‘Yes,’ Linka says clearly, running her hands through Wheeler’s hair. ‘Yes, of course. It is the only way.’

 

***

 

There’s twenty minutes left before Linka needs to leave for her flight. She’s dressing in Wheeler’s room, running a brush through her hair, while he sits on the bed next to her.

 

‘I don’t like this,’ he confesses softly. ‘Bad things happen when we’re apart.’

 

‘I do not like it either,’ she replies. ‘But it makes sense. You stay here, living your life as normal, while I return to the U.K, and plant a false trail of my whereabouts. In six months, we will meet somewhere, and be together again.’

 

‘Six months,’ Wheeler muses bitterly. ‘It’s gonna feel like a fucking lifetime.’

 

Linka sighs, putting the brush down and going to stand before him. His arms encircle her waist and he presses his forehead against the softness of her stomach. ‘It is not a lifetime, Yankee,’ she says gently. ‘It is six months. Enough time for me to go home, and have Cambridge put it out that I will be going on a year-long research trip to Brazil. I will pack up my office, pack up my home, and get my UK residency. And then, instead of getting on the flight to São Paulo, I will get on a flight to you, and wherever you will be.’

 

‘What about Gi?’ He asks, and she feels a dart of pain.

 

‘I do not know what to do about her,’ she admits. 

 

‘We should be goin’ after her, findin’ her and bringin’ her home,’ Wheeler says fervently, and Linka sighs.

 

‘How? It is you and me and Kwame. No Gaia, no Hope Island, no rings, no Captain Planet,’ she swallows hard. ‘No Ma-Ti. No Gi. How can we ever hope to rescue her? We are just three people.’

 

‘It just feels wrong,’ Wheeler spits. ‘Barbara fucking Blight has her, Lin.  _ Barbara Blight.  _ The woman who killed Ma-Ti. And what? We’re going to go on an extended vacation, you and me, while leavin’ Gi to rot?’

 

Linka feels tears sting her eyes. ‘I do not know what to do, Yankee. Eventually Volkov or Blight will slip, Brusilov and Tyomkin seemed confident they could get Gi out, eventually, and-’

 

‘I don’t trust them either,’ Wheeler interrupts, his voice sharp. ‘Fucking Commie spies, the both of ‘em, and-’

 

Linka pulls away from Wheeler instantly, throwing his hands off of her and turning to her bag. She throws a few items in, the bottles and brushes rattling with the violence of her movements, and Wheeler blanches.

 

‘Babe, God, I’m so sorry, I-’

 

‘You know what, James? You sound just like your mother. Hateful and hurtful and... and...’ she pauses, sighing as she looks down at the passport in her hands. It’s thin and blue, an emergency document issued by the UK consulate, valid for a one-time trip to London. She turns back to Wheeler, looking into his pale face sadly. ‘I do not know what to do for the best here, Wheeler,’ she says again. ‘I love Gi, I want to help her... but we cannot rush into this. The last time we rushed into a mission Ma-Ti ended up dead.’

 

Wheeler stares at her, his face hard. ‘Yeah. And that was my fault, right?’

 

She pales. ‘I did not say-’

 

‘You were thinkin’ it though. I can always hear you thinkin’, didn’t I already tell you that?’

 

For a moment they stare at each other, a thousand unsaid words crossing their minds, but not quite reaching their lips. 

 

Finally, Linka sighs. ‘I have to go soon,’ she says quietly.

 

‘You don’t have to,’ Wheeler suggests, suddenly desperate. ‘You and me, we could smuggle ourselves over the border, into Mexico or Canada or...’

 

‘James-’

 

‘No, listen, we could. Transfer all our savings into a cash account, live in the sunshine for the rest of our days.’

 

Linka takes one of his hands. ‘And what about Kwame?’

 

Wheeler brings her fingers to his lips, kissing the tips of each one tenderly. ‘He’s got his happy ever after, Lin. It’s time we claimed ours.’

 

She slides into his lap, nestling her head against his shoulder. ‘If we go off the radar, we will be entirely at the mercy of Volkov. When he finds us- and he will, if he is working for Blight- there will be no police or government interference in our case. Brusilov and Tyomkin- however little we trust them- are right. We go about our lives like all is normal. And then, when Volkov is not expecting it, we disappear into Europe. Whoever Brusilov and Tyomkin are working for, they have an interest in Blight being apprehended. Eventually, she will be. We will work this out, Yankee,’ abruptly, she looks up at him, feeling the hint of tears forming in her eyes. ‘We have to work this out, Yankee.’

 

‘You could still marry me,’ he tries, one final time. ‘You could stay here with me.’

 

‘The US government will never give me residency,’ she sighs. ‘My drugs offence, for one thing-’

 

‘That wasn’t your fault!’ Wheeler protests, but Linka shrugs. 

 

‘The details will not matter. To all intents and purposes, I was once a drug addict, and it will be used against me. More than that, I am still a political dissident. If I stay here, the US government will deport me to Russia. And going back to Russia would be the same as walking straight back into Volkov’s arms. Somewhere down the line, Blight will have cut a deal with Putin or one of his people. Brusilov and Tyomkin might believe Volkov is merely rogue, but I do not,’ Linka nods, even as she thinks. ‘He is working for Blight and Russia at the same time. The money he is transferring- it will almost certainly have origins in Moscow. I do not know what Blight is planning, but I honestly believe Russia will have a part in it.’

 

Wheeler sighs. ‘Sometimes it feels like the world is workin’ against us, doesn’t it?’

 

‘Sometimes,’ Linka agrees. ‘Sometimes I feel like I keep holding out for a Navsegda which might never come.’

 

‘Hey,’ Wheeler stops her, wrapping his arms around her once more. ‘Hey, don’t talk like that. It’s you and me, remember? I’m gonna see you in six months. And in that time,  we’ll work out what to do about Gi, okay?’

 

‘Yes,’ Linka agrees. ‘Yes, of course.’

 

‘Lin, Babe,’ when Wheeler speaks, his words are sincere, hot against her cheek. ‘I’m on the cusp of gettin’ the only thing I’ve ever wanted since I was seventeen years old. You think Russia’s gonna stop me from loving you? Or Blight? The only thing that ever came between you and me was you and me. And we’re okay now, aren’t we?’

 

At that, Linka smiles. ‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘Yes, we’re okay.’

 

‘When you get to London, you buy yourself a new cellphone, okay?’ Wheeler grins. ‘I’m already planning six months worth of filthy thoughts and pictures to send you.’

 

‘Yankee,’ Linka admonishes, but she’s smiling too. 

 

Smiling, and then crying all at once.

 

‘Babe,’ Wheeler exhales, hugging her.

 

‘I am fine, I am fine,’ she brushes the tears away with a hand. ‘I will miss you, is all.’

 

‘I’m gonna miss you too,’ he sighs into her hair. ‘Six months, right?’

 

Linka smiles, but says nothing. 

 

‘Six months,’ he repeats, ‘Six months, and then it's you and me.’

 

‘I have to go,’ she whispers sadly. She pulls out of his arms, zipping up her bag and throwing it over her shoulder. Wheeler watches her, his face pale but still. She smiles down at the emergency passport in her hand, checking the details once more.

 

‘Good picture?’ He queries, nodding at the document with a sad smile.

 

‘No- but given that they organised this passport and my flight home within four hours, I should not complain.’

 

‘What name are you travelling under? I take it Linka Orlova is off the table?’

 

Linka nods. ‘Yes, they told me to choose a name I would respond to instantly, if questioned. Something that would make my ears flick up.’

 

‘Prick up,’ Wheeler corrects her, with a woebegone smile. ‘What did you pick then?’

 

She hands the passport over wordlessly, and watches as Wheeler glances over it, his eyes filling, swallowing hard. 

 

‘James,’ he says heavily. ‘Helena James.’

 

He stares at the passport in his hands, and when Linka reaches over to take it, she squeezes them gently.

 

‘It’s always been you, Yankee. It will always be you.’

 

He hauls her into his arms, kissing her hard. ‘I love you,’ he whispers. ‘Six months, okay?’

 

She nods.

 

She kisses him.

 

And then she leaves.

 

***

 

Brusilov and Tyomkin escort her to the airport. Brusilov watches Linka occasionally brush tears from her cheeks, and clears his throat awkwardly.

 

‘Your man will be fine, you know,’ he says in Russian.

 

Linka shrugs. ‘Of course, he is always fine.’

 

‘Did he believe you?’ Tyomkin asks.

 

‘Of course,’ Linka shrugs again. ‘Why would he not?’

 

‘Good. It will be easier for him this way, in the long run.’

 

‘If you say so,’ Linka says tiredly, closing her eyes.

 

‘You cannot be together, obviously,’ Brusilov sighs. ‘Keeping the remaining Planeteers apart and out of Blight’s hands is of high importance to our organisation. And this way, you can guarantee his safety. And that of your African friend.’

 

Linka says nothing, only sighing, and looking out the window.

 

She watches the New York skyline recede without saying another word.

 

***

 

Three weeks later, at home in Cambridge, Helena sits surrounded by piles of paper. Exams and projects and thesis submissions. She balances the test on one of the papers, an application for a grant to study the breeding habits of puffin colonies, trying her best not to look at it, counting down the seconds until she will know for sure. 

 

Officially know, that is. 

 

Because in her heart, she already knows.

 

There is still so much to organise. Cambridge accepted her resignation with surprise, but remarkably good grace. There will be an official announcement in the next few weeks, but for now, she is trying to wrap her work up quietly, and without fuss. 

 

She feels cold all the time. She’s numbed herself to feeling anything, and even when the messages come through on her phone, optimistic, loving, and full of hope.

 

_ Miss you, babe. Love you always. _

 

She picks up the test after the demanded 180 seconds and inhales sharply.

 

She’s numb still, and doesn’t know what to feel. She supposes she ought to tell the father. She supposes she ought to tell her friends. Her work.

 

But then her phone rings, saving her from all thought.

 

She glances at the caller, and sighs.

 

‘Hello,’ she says coolly.

 

‘Is this a bad time?’ The voice asks.

 

‘No, not a bad time,’ she replies. ‘Actually, I needed to talk to you.’

 

‘Really?’

 

‘Yes. Can you meet me for coffee today, Richard?’

 

She can almost feel his smile down the phone line. ‘For you Helena? Of course.’

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You hate me now, right?


	14. Grasshoppers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to updating this one. We’re going into the crux of act three now. Big revelation coming next chapter.

When Linka leaves, just a slip of a thing in her too-big coat, wedged between Brusilov and Tyomkin and being escorted out his door, Wheeler stares at the space where he kissed her last, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to watch her walk out of his life once more. 

 

His floor is polished oak, and he sees a scuff in the woodwork, a scratch from his shoes or the furniture - he can’t be sure - and he stares at it, wondering how the hell he’s going to buff it out. He hears Linka speak, call his name across the room, but he keeps his head down, his eyes trained on the mark, and he wonders: does he use polish or sandpaper on this kind of thing? Or should it be wax? And where do you even buy floor wax, or will candle wax do, or...?

 

And then he hears his door click shut, footsteps falling away into the distance, and he squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his fists, struck numb with pain. 

 

She’s gone. She’s really gone.

 

And he missed it. Missed her. 

 

And all because he was staring at a fucking scuff in his floor.

 

He goes back to his room, climbs into his bed and wraps the sheets around his body, inhaling the smell of her and taking rasping, uncertain breaths.

 

This is a mistake. Letting her go is a mistake, and the urge to run after her, to pull her back into his arms and the safe confines of this apartment, is so severe that he bites on his lip - hard - to stop himself from moving.

 

Mentally, he goes over the reasons why she had to leave, again and again and again until his mind is made blank with them. Obviously, getting Linka out of the States - and away from the threat of deportation to Russia - was the priority. But for Wheeler, it’s the thought of Barbara Blight, with her twisted version of science and her unhealthy interest in the remaining Planeteers, which made him give Linka up to Brusilov and Tyomkin, over all of his reservations.

 

Barbara Blight killed Ma-Ti, an act for which Wheeler will never forgive her. But she did so in such a cruel and calculating way, destroying the Planeteers from within and fracturing their souls as well as their hearts, that Wheeler pales when he thinks of what Gi must be going through under her tyranny. 

 

Of what Linka might go through, should she fall into Blight’s hands.

 

He must sleep, for when he next opens his eyes, the bright fluorescent lights of the city stream in through his open curtains, making him wince. He turns in his bed, blinding reaching for Linka’s form, before his arm hits the cool sheets and he sighs. He sits up, running a hand tiredly over his face and searching for his phone. 

 

His iphone glows obnoxiously in the muted dark of his bedroom, and he reads the digits on the homescreen without feeling. It’s nine thirty in the evening; he’s slept the day away. Linka should be in London by now, he calculates.  

 

That is, If she wasn’t apprehended on the way, he realises, swallowing hard.

 

She doesn’t have a cellphone, so he can’t call her. Not yet. She promised him she would message him as soon as she bought a new one, and so all he can do now is wait. 

 

Wait and wait and wait.

 

Wait for a message and then a call.

 

Wait for time to pass them by -  _ again  _ \- so they can make a plan. 

 

So that they can finally be together.

 

With another sigh, he stumbles out of bed, going into his shower and soaping up his skin, even though he’s loathe to wash the scent of Linka from his body. He lets the rivulet of warm water run down his back until it turns lukewarm, at which point he shuts the water off, pulls on some clean clothes and pads through to his kitchen. He stares dumbly at the kettle for a minute, knowing full well that he’s shit at making tea, that Linka always has and always will make the best cup, before remembering that he doesn’t even like tea all that much anyway and opening a beer.

 

He’s sitting in his living room, the television on but hardly registering the show before him, his beer untouched on the table when his phone rings.

 

_ Linka,  _ he thinks immediately, his heart jumping in his chest and a sudden, piercing need to hear her voice striking him hard. He grabs his phone eagerly, before flinching when he takes in the name that crosses the screen.

 

_ Trish. _

 

His mouth dry, he answers the call. They haven’t spoken in... what? A year? Dimly, he’s aware of the fact that Trish always seems to fill the void an absence of Linka in his life seems to leave, and bitterly, he berates himself once again for ever marrying her.

 

For hurting her, by dangling a love she could never really have in front of her for so many years. He knew Trish loved him, wholly, sincerely and without guile, and he knows now that he used her mercilessly, hoping against hope that she could fix him, that she could put him back together after Ma-Ti died, and the loss of Linka shattered his heart. 

 

‘Hey,’ he says, his voice surprisingly heavy, and he hears Trish inhale sharply.

 

‘Hey, yourself,’ she replies. ‘Got a minute to talk to talk?’

 

He shrugs, even though Trish can’t see the gesture. ‘Sure.’

 

He sips on his beer now, holding his phone to his ear and putting his legs up on the table. He stretches out, hoping that comfort in his body will make up for the extreme discomfort he’s feeling in his soul, and waits for Trish to speak.

 

‘I wanna sell the Brooklyn brownstone,’ she says simply, and Wheeler takes a deep breath.

 

‘Okay,’ he agrees, without even pausing. He thinks of Linka, of the future they’re planning - _ together, this time, thank Christ -  _ and realises that Trish’s coming to him on this matter is a blessing in disguise. He and Linka will need money, after all, if they’re going to live off the radar for a few years. Selling the brownstone, that expensive, beautiful property with it's immaculate interiors and easy commute into the city, will accomplish that. ‘Okay.’

 

He hears her give a bitter laugh. ‘I thought you’d fight me on this one,’ she tells him. ‘After we split, when it stopped being our _....  _ Well, it was meant to be an investment property, after all.’

 

He hears her unspoken words:  _ When it stopped being our home.  _ Once again, he’s struck by a grim sense of regret and self-hatred. He remembers Trish slaving over that house. Recalls her fussing over wallpapers and colour samples and tiling and carpet thread counts. Vividly, he remembers coming home one day to find her in tears over a crack in the sandstone paving slabs she’d imported in from India.

 

‘They’re just pavers,’ he’d tried to comfort her, brushing the tears from her cheeks. But she’d remained hunched in a ball on the floor, shaking her head. 

 

Because they weren’t just pavers. Not to her.

 

He didn’t realise it at the time, but Trish, with her burning desire to fill their marital home with exotic items from far-flung lands, was trying to replace his associations with those places with shared memories and things of their own. She wasn’t a fool; she’d seen the images of him with the Planeteers -  _ with Linka -  _ in places like Thailand, France, Egypt and Bangladesh. 

 

He’d danced with Linka on the banks of the Seine... so, Trish bought teacups from Paris.

 

He’d cruised down the Mississippi River with Linka all the way to New Orleans, where they’d drunk overpriced mint juleps from a bar in the French Quarter... so, Trish had their windows decked out in Louisiana style iron-work. 

 

He’d kissed Linka under an Australian waterfall, the smell of eucalyptus heavy in the air... so, Trish bought acacia wood chairs and tables.

 

Wheeler swallows hard again. With Linka, he’d amassed memories. With Trish, he’d amassed things. Maybe, if he’d worked harder on making memories with Trish rather than buying furnishings, they might have gone the distance.

 

But then he thinks of Linka, of her smell and smile and how he feels in her presence, and thinks maybe not.

__

‘It’s time to let the place go,’ Wheeler tells Trish honestly. ‘Time for it to be home for somebody else.’

 

He hears Trish give a small huff, a bitter exhalation of air which doesn’t need explaining. Wheeler gets it.

 

‘Fine,’ she replies. ‘That’s fine. So, we sell the place.’

 

‘Yeah,’ Wheeler agrees. ‘Do you want me to contact an agent or...’

 

‘I can do that,’ Trish says tersely. ‘I know people in the business.’

 

‘Great,’ Wheeler says. ‘Thanks.’

 

For a moment, an awkward silence hangs on the line.

 

‘So... how are you?’ he asks her.

 

‘Fine. Good. Fine,’ her words are quick. ‘Business is good.’

 

‘I’m glad,’ Wheeler tells her, because he is. Trish deserves to do well in life.

 

‘You seeing anyone?’ she asks him abruptly, and Wheeler inhales sharply.

 

‘What?’ he breathes, and Trish gives another one of those annoyed, irritated huffs.

 

‘Don’t play the dumbass, Wheeler. I said, are you seeing anyone?’

 

‘That’s my business, surely,’ he argues.

 

God knows, he doesn’t want to hurt Trish again. And God knows, his being with Linka will probably do just that.

 

‘Yeah,’ Trish agrees. ‘Yeah, it probably would be your business... if it wasn’t splashed all over the fuckin’ tabloids, Wheeler.’

 

‘What do you mean?’ he snaps, and Trish sighs.

 

‘You and...’ she pauses. ‘Anyway. The pictures are all over the tabloids today, Wheeler.’

 

He freezes, suddenly unable to speak.

 

‘We’re divorced, I get that,’ Trish carries on. ‘What you do with your time... who you  _ do _ ... is your business now. But a little heads up for me wouldn’t go amiss, you know. Eight people have already shared the pictures of you and... and  _ her...  _ with me today. There’ll be more tomorrow. You could’ve told me. Could’ve warned me.’

 

‘What pictures? How?’ he splutters, and Trish sighs.

 

‘There’s about a dozen pictures of you and your latest conquest -’

 

‘Don’t call her that,’ Wheeler interjects instantly, his voice low with warning.

 

‘Fine. There’s pictures of you and her leavin’ your apartment. Pictures of you all cuddled up at breakfast. Pictures of you wrappin’ your scarf around her neck. The press are havin’ a field day and they’ve already contacted me for ‘comment’, the bastards,’ Trish’s voice is tight. ‘I wish you’d told me the two of you were together.’

 

Wheeler’s already pulling out his ipad, loading up the images. And sure enough, there he is. There she is. The two of them, together, on their way to that cafe the first morning Linka was here. The images are grainy, badly focused... but it's undeniably them. Someone snap-happy and armed with a cellphone must have recognised them and decided to make a quick buck. Wheeler’s fists clench, and he chews on his bottom lip.

 

‘It’s recent, I promise,’ he tells Trish through gritted teeth, but she only laughs.

 

‘You and her? Recent? Please, Wheeler. It’s been goin’ on for years, the two of you.’

 

‘I was never unfaithful,’ he bites back, but Trish is just as quick to retort.

 

‘Not with your body, I’ll give you that. But your mind? You were thinkin’ of her everyday. Every night. Every minute you had to spare, you gave to her.’

 

Wheeler pauses, sits with a deep sigh.

 

‘I’m sorry I hurt you,’ he says again, meaning every word.

 

Trish is quiet for a moment.

 

‘I know,’ she concedes. ‘It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Look, I’m gonna list the brownstone. We’ll split the proceeds. I’ll have my lawyer get in touch.’

 

‘Okay.’

 

Trish sighs again. ‘You took her to  _ our  _ cafe,’ she says lightly, and Wheeler scratches his head.

 

‘What do you mean?’

 

‘That place down the road from your folks’ apartment... your apartment,’ she corrects herself. ‘You took her there. That’s the place we used to go to. The place I used to buy your fuckin’ vegan bacon. Jesus, Wheeler, you couldn’t have taken her anywhere else?’

 

Wheeler’s mind suddenly does a double take, and he feels the wind knocked out of his lungs.

 

_ Vegan bacon. _

 

He feels a fresh torrent of pain.  _ Linka. _

 

‘I didn’t think,’ he says, ‘I didn’t think you would ever care.’ Although the words are spoken to Trish, in his heart he’s saying them to Linka.

 

Trish sighs. ‘My lawyer will get in touch with yours. Bye Wheeler.’

 

‘Bye,’ he says, still holding the phone to his ear, even though the silence on the other end means Trish has long since hung up.

 

For a moment he sits, the phone pressed to his cheek, cool and hard. For a moment he takes a deep, steadying breath.

 

He’s going to go crazy, sitting here and waiting to hear from Linka. That much he knows. 

 

For the sake of his sanity, he’s got to get out of here.

 

***

 

He goes to Florida to see his Mom.

 

He throws a few things into a bag, grabs his passport - just in case - and hops on a redeye to MCO. He lands to warm evening air and checks into a nearby hotel, before renting a car the next morning and driving to his Mom’s apartment up near Daytona. 

 

To say she’s surprised to see him is an understatement.

 

‘Jimmy, fuck,’ Angie exhales, when she opens the door to him. ‘What are you doin’ here?’

 

‘Felt like some sun for a few days,’ he says, kissing her on the cheek.

 

‘Really?’ she’s sceptical.

 

‘Nah, I came to see you, didn’t I?’ he tries to smile, but it falls flat, and his mother stares at him.

 

‘What’s goin’ on?’ Angie asks him. ‘And don’t bullshit me.’

 

He shrugs. ‘Needed to get outta the city, is all.’

 

She nods and lets him in, and he sits on her floral-patterned sofa, awkward and alone, while she makes him up a lemonade.

 

And isn’t that just a hoot,  _ his Mom making lemonade  _ like an honest to God good mother.

 

‘What you really doin’ here Jimmy?’ his mother asks him, once she’s handed over a glass of tart and bitter yellow fluid, liberally sprinkled with sugar. It’s too sour and too sweet all at once, and Wheeler grimaces as he swallows down a mouthful.

 

‘I’m leavin’ New York,’ he tells her bluntly. ‘Sellin’ the apartment. Thought you should know.’

 

His mother stares at him.

 

‘When did you decide this?’ she asks him blankly.

 

‘On the plane,’ he answers honestly. ‘On the way here.’

 

‘Why would you do such a fuckin’ stupid thing, Jimmy?’

 

‘It’s my life,’ he argues. ‘I’m gonna live it how I want.’

 

‘Where?’

 

‘What?’ he asks.

 

‘Where?’ Angie repeats. ‘Where are you gonna live this life of yours, if not New York? New York is the only home you’ve ever had.’

 

‘No. There was Hope Island,’ he tells her, and she rolls her eyes.

 

‘The less we say about that place, the better.’

 

‘It’s my life, Mom.’

 

‘So you keep telling me,’ Angie waves her hand, sips her own drink. She doesn’t seem at all fazed by the taste, and Wheeler guesses she likes her drinks strong... to disguise the lack of alcohol in them. Or maybe the years of alcohol abuse destroyed her taste buds. He can’t be sure, and figures he’ll never know.

 

‘I just wanna be happy,’ he says now, and she sighs.

 

‘You know, Trish would take you back in a heartbeat if you -’

 

‘Mom -’

 

‘- if you wanted her,’ Angie finishes, and Wheeler nods sadly.

 

‘Yeah,’ he agrees. ‘Yeah, I think she would. But I don’t want Trish, Mom. Not anymore.’

 

Angie stares at him. ‘Movin’ to Russia then, are you?’

 

He stares at her.

 

‘Little Miss Socialism got her pretty talons in you again, has she?’

 

‘Then, now and always,’ he says bluntly.

 

Angie sips her lemonade once more. ‘I don’t approve, you know I don’t. I can’t approve of that sullen, silent,  _ Commie girl  _ being with my son, my only boy, and -’

 

‘I don’t need your approval,’ Wheeler tells her coolly. ‘I’m not here for that.’

 

‘Why are you here then?’ she snaps, and Wheeler sighs.

 

‘To say goodbye, Mom. I’m sellin’ up in New York. Leavin’ for awhile. Gonna fly under the radar for a time.’

 

She stares at him.

 

‘With  _ her _ ?’ she says vehemently, and he shrugs.

 

‘Eventually, yes.’

 

‘Eventually?’

 

‘She has some things to wrap up in the U.K,’ he says. ‘That’s where she’s been livin’ all this time. The U.K.’

 

Angie stares at him.

 

‘Not Russia?’

 

‘No. Lin and Russia... well, they don’t get on so well these days.’

 

Angie sips her drink again, but says nothing. Wheeler resists a sudden urge to haul his lemonade against the wall.

 

‘Where you goin’ first then?’ his mother finally asks him.

 

He shrugs.

 

‘I don’t know. Maybe Atlanta.’

 

‘Atlanta,’ Angie muses. ‘Then where?’

 

‘I don’t know,’ he admits. ‘I don’t know.’

 

Angie shrugs. ‘Should’ve known you’d do something crazy ass like this one day. You always were an odd one. First Hope Island, now Atlanta...’ she pauses, looking at him intently. ‘Always figured you’d end up in Colorado one day. I should’ve known.’

 

Wheeler nearly drops his lemonade. 

 

‘What did you say?’ he asks, his voice nearly a whisper.

 

Angie almost smiles. ‘You were always bangin’ on about Colorado as a kid. Couldn’t get you to shut up about the damn place.’

 

‘Colorado,’ he repeats quietly, as though considering the idea for the first time. ‘Yeah. That’s it, Mom. I’m finally gonna go to Colorado.’

 

His mother only shrugs, takes another sip of her damn lemonade.

 

‘Figures.’

 

***

 

He doesn’t go to Colorado, not straight away. First he drives up the coast, finds himself in a small fishing town somewhere in South Carolina. He spends a few days staring at the ocean, running on the sand of the beach, and nearly cries when his phone pings one morning, a message from Linka across the screen.

 

_ Yankee  _ is all the message says, but it's enough.

 

She’s safe. She made it. She’s in Cambridge, and everything will be alright.

 

He sends a flurry of messages to her. Messages of love and support and comfort. A few filthy jokes, to lighten the mood. He sends her a picture of the sea, and then, once he’s driven west to Atlanta, a few images of the peach trees for which the city was famous. She sends images back, mainly of her workload, but also of herself. She looks pale and tired, and Wheeler frets.

 

_ You look worn out. Are you okay? _

 

Her reply, a few hours later, is short and to the point.  _ I think so. I don’t know. My stomach is all grasshoppers. _

 

He grins.  _ You mean butterflies. _

 

She doesn’t reply, and Wheeler goes for a run, to stop himself from calling her.

 

_ I miss you, like crazy.  _ He eventually texts.  _ Navsegda soon though, right? _

 

Again, she doesn’t reply, and when he wakes, he blames her lack of response on the time difference.

 

He spends another week in Atlanta, before going west again, to Missouri. He checks into a hotel in St. Louis, spends his time losing himself in the city.

 

He tries not to think about why Linka messages him so infrequently. He tries not to think about why her replies to his messages are always so short, so brusque. 

 

He tries not to think at all, and just gets back in his car, and drives to another city.

 

He’s somewhere in the deep south, Arkansas maybe, in a campsite hugging the Mississippi River, when his phone rings late one night.

 

His stomach drops when he answers it.

 

‘Kwame, man, I am so sorry about not calling you back,’ he apologises instantly, without even letting his friend speak. ‘Shit, you must still be so worried about Haya... about her usin’ your ring... and I never even told Linka about it... I’m such a bad friend, man.’

 

Kwame’s voice, when he speaks, is eeriely calm.

 

‘It does not matter, my friend,’ he says. ‘Listen, Wheeler, you need to come to the U.K.’

 

Wheeler’s blood runs cold.

 

‘Why?’ he asks.

 

Kwame does not waste words, or time. ‘It is Linka,’ he tells him. 

 

‘What about Linka?’

 

‘She is gone,’ Kwame says simply. ‘She is missing.’

  
  
  
  



	15. Folio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may up the chapter count. I think I might need 20 to work through this, once my edits are taken into account (rolls eyes at own lack of self-control).

_ They’re all tired, worn out with too little sleep and too much work. His eyes feel heavy, dry and crusted, and he rubs at them, trying to concentrate on the horizon, on the thrum of machinery under his fingertips. _

 

_ But it's useless; he needs to rest. If he continues to pilot the geo-cruiser, he might endanger the whole team.  _

 

_ ‘I need some sleep,’ he says, almost frantically, and hears Gi shift in her seat, before standing. Gi, whose eyes are just as red and shadowed as his. Gi, who has bitten her fingernails to ragged stumps, blood smearing the corners. _

 

_ But before Gi takes another step, he feels Linka’s hand on his shoulder, and she nudges him from the pilot’s chair. _

 

_ ‘My turn,’ she says with a smile. A tired smile, but still, a smile all the same. With relief, he notes that she looks a little more rested than any of them, her eyes not quite bright but not so bloodshot as his.  _

 

_ He smiles back, pressing the controls into her hands, slipping out of the pilot’s seat and watching her slip in. _

 

_ ‘Your aircraft,’ he tells her, and she nods. _

 

_ ‘My aircraft.’ _

 

_ He moves to the back of the geo-cruiser, stepping over Wheeler’s long legs, biting back a sudden desire to snap at the American to move. Tiredness grates on them all, but he doesn’t have the same urge to snap at the others as he does Wheeler. Perhaps it is because Linka and Gi are girls, and he cannot, even now, shake off the old chivalry instilled in him as a boy. Perhaps it is because he still considers Ma-Ti a child, a tall and gangly one at that, with hints of the man he will soon be forming in the shape of his shoulders, in the curve of his jaw. Perhaps it is because he loves the others more than he loves Wheeler. Or perhaps, as is more likely, it is because he envies Wheeler his current happiness. _

 

_ Because, as Kwame well knows, right now, Wheeler is a happy man. _

 

_ The American’s eyes are closed, his face slack with sleep. But even in his repose, a smile plays upon his lips, and his eyelashes flutter with dreams. Good dreams. Dreams of happiness and hope and brighter skies. _

 

_ He is a man in love, Kwame realises, with a measure of surprise. _

 

_ Strange, he never thought of Wheeler as the kind of man capable of real, romantic love. Certainly, the American has never hinted at having feelings of depth, or of profound emotion. He’s traipsed from girl to girl, after all. He’s picked up random women in bars, after the other Planeteers have retired for the evening, and dispensed with them easily enough in the morning. He’s been dating Trish, for what? Ten months now? If they were even still dating, that is. For even with Trish, after their initial reconciliation in New York, his feelings seemed to have cooled. Whenever she called these days, Wheeler’s face looked strained. Whenever she visited, he made excuses not to be alone with her.  _

 

_ No, Kwame thinks. It is not Trish who has won Wheeler’s well-hidden heart. _

 

_ Worriedly, almost inadvertently, Kwame’s eyes trail to Linka. She’s flying the geo-cruiser with ease, her hair tied back and trailing over one shoulder.  _

 

_ He knows that Wheeler has always been attracted to their Russian colleague, while also understanding that the attraction was futile, and that Linka would never return his obvious advances. Not that he imagined, even for a moment, that Linka was completely unaffected by his charm. There were too many sparks between the mostly warring pair for that, too many lingering glances, too many harsh words, softened only by the occasional tender moment. How many times has he walked into a room, only to walk out again, seeing Linka in Wheeler’s arms? How many times has he interrupted a quiet conversation between the pair, conducted when they thought no one was watching? Kwame’s not blind, he knows Wheeler cares for Linka. But he’s also not a fool... he knows Linka cares for Wheeler too. _

 

_ But love? No. Not that. Not between them. _

 

_ When the geo-cruiser lands in Iceland later that night, the Planeteers disembark and start hauling luggage from the hold. All but one, that is. Wheeler’s still asleep, cocooned in the crook of his seat. _

 

_ ‘Who’s going to wake Sleeping Beauty?’ Gi asks mischievously. They all  know Wheeler hates to be woken at the best of times, let alone when they’re all as sleep-deprived as they currently are. _

 

_ Kwame groans, stepping towards the geo-cruiser, but once again, he feels Linka’s hand on his shoulder. _

 

_ ‘My turn,’ she says, for the second time that day. ‘You and the others start taking the luggage over to the hotel. We will meet you there, in the folio.’ _

 

_ ‘You mean the foyer,’ Gi grins, but Kwame only nods, grateful for her help.  _

 

_ In the hotel lobby, Ma-Ti stretches, while Gi looks around them with dismay. _

 

_ ‘This hotel is... something else,’ she says warily, and Kwame sighs. The walls are crumbling, and the decor is tired.  _

 

_ ‘It is cheap, and a roof over our heads,’ he shrugs. ‘So many others do not have even that.’ _

 

_ Gi, to her credit, does not roll her eyes, though for a moment, Kwame thinks Ma-Ti does. _

 

_ It shouldn’t be a surprise, or hurt him as it does. But a roll of anguish goes through Kwame at the knowledge that Ma-Ti, his brother in all but blood, prefers Wheeler’s company to his own. That the boy they’ve all raised these past few years looks to their American colleague for advice and inspiration. Sometimes, late at night, when he can’t sleep and a thousand tumultuous thoughts are going through his mind, Kwame wonders if there is something fundamentally unlikeable about him. Wonders if he sounds like the worst kind of pious eco-warrior. Wonders if his words, meant to offer comfort, only offend. _

 

_ He swallows hard, and turns to Gi and Ma-Ti. _

 

_ ‘I have left my coat on the geo-cruiser,’ he tells them. They do not need to know that it is safely tucked in his hand luggage. ‘You check in, while I go back for it.’  _

 

_ They both nod, and Kwame turns back, walking outside and into the crisp Icelandic air. He takes several deep mouthfuls before heading to the geo-cruiser, hopping in and - _

 

_ The scene before him makes him pause. Wheeler is awake, but still stretched out in his seat. And Linka... Linka is in his arms, her head resting against the curve of his neck. He’s whispering in her ear, and the smile she wears... it is unlike any smile Kwame has seen her use before.  _

 

_ Kwame backs away, quietly, so as to not disturb the pair further, leaving them to their embrace. _

 

_ When he returns to the hotel, he sits in a chair by the window, lost in thought, confused by all he has seen. _

 

_ ‘Are you alright, Kwame?’ Ma-Ti’s voice, soft and full of understanding, breaks into the confusing patterns his mind is drawing. _

 

_ ‘Yes,’ Kwame replies. ‘It is just...’ he looks up at his friend, his brow furrowed, ‘it is just... sometimes I wonder how well I know you all... truly, that is... sometimes I wonder if we are as close as I would like to believe.’ _

 

_ Ma-Ti sighs, and lays a hand on Kwame’s shoulder. It is firmer than Linka’s, but just as warm. _

 

_ ‘We are family,’ he says, his voice rich with confidence. ‘We are family, Kwame.’ _

 

_ Kwame thinks of Linka and Wheeler. He sighs once more. _

 

_ ‘I worry for them,’ he admits, testing the waters, wondering just how much Ma-Ti knows. _

 

_ But Ma-Ti smiles. ‘I do not,’ he replies simply. ‘I do not.’    _

 

_ Kwame smiles, and tries to shake off his feeling of unease. ‘I don’t know why I am so anxious this evening. Tiredness perhaps,’ he tries to be flippant. ‘We are all exhausted and...’ _

 

_ But Ma-Ti’s face clouds over, his eyes darkening, and though he stares at Kwame, Kwame knows he is not really there. _

 

_ ‘Ma-Ti...’ he begins, but before he can speak further, Ma-Ti startles. _

 

_ He has returned, from wherever and whenever he went, though his face is still dark, his eyes still serious. _

 

_ ‘Kwame,’ he says, his voice stark, ‘Kwame, when the time comes, you must depend on Wheeler and trust him. Please... do this for me.’ _

 

_ ‘What do you mean?’ Kwame asks sharply. ‘What are you saying?’ _

 

_ Abruptly, Ma-Ti smiles. ‘One day, my brother, when the time comes, you will know.’ _

 

_ *** _

 

When he arrives from New York, Wheeler looks like shit.

 

Kwame tries to think of a more eloquent way to describe his friend, but nothing else in that moment springs to mind. Wheeler’s face is drawn, his eyes are lined, and he’s hunched over, like the weight of the world sits upon his shoulders.

 

In fact, he’s so bedraggled looking when he emerges into the arrivals hall at Heathrow, that Kwame has to take a deep breath. 

 

It strikes him hard that he hasn’t laid eyes upon Wheeler in over ten years. Strikes him hard that they are mostly strangers now, with only a few stilted conversations between them, though they share history, and a deep love for the same woman.

 

Linka, Kwame realises, is the strongest thread between them. Perhaps the only one they can use to move forward from the past, or this point.

 

It doesn’t take long for Wheeler to spot Kwame waiting for him, and he stops for a moment while they stare at each other. Kwame tries to smile, tries to speak, but finds his mouth empty of words, his face empty of feeling. It’s then that the American slings his bag over his back and walks towards him.

 

‘Hey,’ Wheeler says, a brief, almost rueful smile fluttering over his mouth.

 

‘Hello, old friend,’ Kwame replies.

 

Again, they stare at each other. Wheeler rubs his neck, an old nervous tell of his, while Kwame clears his throat.

 

‘My car is this way,’ Kwame tells him, and Wheeler nods.

 

‘Sure. We goin’ straight to Lin’s place?’

 

When he speaks Linka’s name, Wheeler’s face crumples slightly. Kwame feels a little of the hardness around his heart soften, and he places a hand on Wheeler’s shoulder.

 

‘Yes. There is something I want to show you.’

 

‘What?’ Wheeler asks instantly. ‘What do you know?’

 

Kwame pauses. ‘Nothing, really. Not for certain, anyway. I want your opinion.’

 

‘My opinion?’ Wheeler begins. ‘That never meant much to...’ he drifts off, looking down at his shoes. ‘Sorry. I told myself I wasn’t gonna do this. Not here.’

 

‘I understand,’ Kwame says, with a stab of sorrow. ‘We have much to say to each other. I know we did not part on good terms.’

 

‘That’s the nice way of puttin’ it,’ Wheeler agrees. ‘Come one. I want to find Lin.’

 

Kwame nods. ‘Yes. Me too.’

 

Once more, they stare at each other. Kwame takes in the fine lines around Wheeler’s eyes, the harder, more muscular tone to his body. He’s is older, Kwame realises. In his mind, whenever he pictured the American, it was as a young man, the cocky, life-sure Planeteer. This older, more measured Wheeler comes as a surprise.

 

But then, he is older too, he reasons. There is a peppering of white in his hair, and since Haya joined them, there is a new tiredness to his eyes. Age, Kwame thinks, plays havoc with them all.

 

But then, Kwame thinks of Ma-Ti, and remembers that the opposite,  _ not aging _ , is worse. He and Wheeler stand together as two men, both missing a brother. If Gi and Linka, as the female planeteers, were like parallel lines, than he, Wheeler and Ma-Ti were like a triangle. The strongest shape, Kwame remembers Ma-Ti telling him. 

 

Ma-Ti, who should be here with them.

 

Ma-Ti, who never should have gone.

 

He swallows again and bites down on his lip, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Wheeler must notice, because he sighs, and throws his arms around Kwame’s back.

 

‘I’ve missed you,’ the American says softly, and Kwame nods.

 

‘I have missed you too, old friend.’

 

***

 

Wheeler sleeps most of the two hour journey to Cambridge. When he wakes, at some point on the M11, Kwame smiles at him.

 

‘You did not sleep on the plane?’

 

Wheeler shrugs. ‘Flew in on Delta. Not the best airline for comfort. Besides, with Lin...’ he trails off. ‘Just couldn’t rest till I got here.’

 

‘You can afford to fly better than Delta,’ Kwame remarks.

 

‘Yeah. But they had the first flight outta Atlanta. Didn’t want to hang around waitin’ for a BA flight.’

 

‘Atlanta?’ Kwame asks in surprise. ‘But I thought you were in Brooklyn?’

 

‘Not for three weeks. I’ve been travellin’,’ Wheeler replies, almost uneasily.

 

‘Where?’ Kwame doesn’t want to pry, but then, he can feel discomfort coming off of his friend in waves. He wants Wheeler to be comfortable around him... as much as he can be, at any rate.

 

‘Here and there, man. Here and there.’

 

‘You do not wish to tell me,’ Kwame shrugs. ‘I did not mean to...’

 

‘Nah, man, it's not that,’ Wheeler interjects. ‘Or maybe it is. I don’t know. I was... look, I was on my way to Colorado.’

 

Kwame feels ice roll down his spine. ‘Why?’ He asks, sweat on his brow.

 

But he already knows why.

 

‘Always wanted to go.’

 

‘Colorado was the last word Ma-Ti ever said,’ Kwame says, accusation in his tone. 

 

‘Yeah,’ Wheeler agrees softly. ‘Yeah, it was.’

 

Kwame inhales sharply, trying to keep his eye on the road. 

 

‘One day,’ he says quietly, ‘one day, you will tell me what it meant. Remember, I was there too. I saw it too. I deserve to know what his last word meant.’

 

‘You  _ deserve  _ to know?’ Wheeler scoffs.

 

Kwame grips the steering wheel tightly between his fingers. ‘You are right. That was the wrong word to use. I meant... I meant...’ momentarily, he struggles for the right phrase. ‘It would give me comfort to know. Like Linka, he loved you best, I know. But he was my brother too.’

 

Wheeler runs a tired hand over his face. ‘Lin loves you more than you realise. She was frantic when she first thought about you, waitin’ for her at the airport,’ he pauses, pain crossing his face. ‘Kwame, man, I just wanna say... look, that is... thank you.’ He swallows, and Kwame knows he is struggling. ‘Thank you for pickin’ up the pieces, after I left that mornin’... thank you for takin’ care of her for me.’

 

Kwame’s grip tightens again. ‘I did not take care of her for  _ you, _ ’ he says firmly. ‘I took care of her for  _ her _ .’

 

Wheeler pales. He looks wretched. ‘Yeah. Yeah. You’re right.’ He stops for a minute, and when he speaks again, his voice is sincere. ‘Ma-Ti loved you so much, Kwame. Please don’t doubt that. He loved us all.’ He pauses again. ‘It should’ve been me, you know. It should’ve been me.’

 

Kwame blanches. ‘Ma-Ti made his choice, Wheeler. That last mission was a trap. There were no good decisions to be made.’

 

Wheeler’s face stiffens. ‘If I’d just pressed that button first...’

 

But Kwame shakes his head. ‘You didn’t. Ma-Ti did. You must accept it for what it is. We cannot change the past.’

 

In his mind, he feels the hands of Blight’s henchman on his body. Feels himself being thrust into a glass coffin, standing upright. Sees through the glass four other coffins, in a circle, so that they can read the agony on each other’s faces. 

 

_ ‘One must die so the others may live,’ he hears MAL’s voice coolly intone. ‘Before each of you is a button. Pressing that will flood your coffin with water and release the doors on the others. When one of you is dead, the others may leave without fear of attack.’ _

 

_ Kwame’s hand is already in the air, his ring glowing, the word ‘Earth’ on his lips. _

 

_ But just like that, a thump sounds, and Linka slumps to the bottom of her coffin.  _

 

_ ‘No calling the Captain today, I’m afraid,’ MAL tells them. ‘Madam’s orders.’ _

 

_ A trickle runs down Kwame’s neck, and he looks up. Water is slowly streaming in from above him, settling in a dangerous puddle at his feet. _

 

_ ‘If one of you does not press their button, you will all drown. Another of Madam’s orders,’ MAL informs them. ‘Five minutes remaining. I would get choosing, if I were you.’ _

 

_ Kwame takes a deep breath, looks to Gi. She is frantic, aiming her ring at the water above her, at the water over them all, saying ‘water, water, water,’ though it has no effect. There is nowhere for the water to escape. No gaps or breaks or hidden panels. _

 

_ He looks to Ma-Ti, who is sitting at the bottom of his box, staring at Wheeler. _

 

_ He looks to Wheeler, but the American has eyes only for Linka. She is unconscious, slumped in her coffin, and if someone does not press a button... if someone does not choose to go.... she will drown first. Wheeler’s fists are clenched, his face set into determined lines. _

 

_ Kwame feels fear run through him. Wheeler always plays the hero. It’s like an addiction, a compulsion. He is always their hero... and today, he means to meet a hero’s death. _

 

_ Because he loves her. _

 

_ Because he loves them all. _

 

_ Kwame glances at Linka, pale and still. It suddenly occurs to him, like a revelation in his soul, that Linka and Wheeler love each other. That they are meant to be together. That if one of them dies, the other will too. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, the loss of their other half will destroy them. Kwame feels that as firmly as he feels the water sitting like a snake against his skin. _

 

_ ‘Depend on Wheeler and trust him,’ Kwame recalls Ma-Ti’s words, and he looks to the South American boy again, who is still staring at Wheeler. Ma-Ti looks calm, almost content, and Kwame puts his hand against the button before him. ‘When the time comes, you will know.’ _

 

_ That time, Kwame decides, is not today. It is not Wheeler’s day to die, he resolves. He will play the hero today, make the sacrifice, save the others - _

 

_ But Ma-Ti stands, and speaks one word: ‘Colorado.’ _

 

_ Ma-Ti presses his button, though Kwame pounds on the glass of his coffin, wanting to stop him, to stop this. Wheeler and Gi are screaming, tears staining both of their cheeks, and they are all forced to watch as Ma-Ti’s coffin fills with water.  _

 

_ But Ma-Ti meets death, as he lived life, with grace and compassion. His eyes close, his body relaxes, and his ring glows hard on his finger. _

 

_ Gaia is with him, Kwame realises. Gaia will not let him die in agony. Gaia will take him to the other side. _

 

_ When it is finished, the doors on their coffins release. Ma-Ti’s body falls to floor in a wash of water, and Wheeler crawls to his side, shouting at him and hitting his chest and crying. Gi remains curled up in her box, sobbing, her chest heaving painfully. _

 

_ It is left to Kwame to tend to Linka.  _

 

_ He picks her up, noting with relief that she still breathes.  _

 

_ ‘I’ve got you,’ he says to her limp form. ‘I am here.’ _

 

_ *** _

 

Kwame lets them both into Linka’s little house. He peels his shoes from his feet, and motions for Wheeler to do the same.

 

‘It is Linka,’ he explains to a perplexed Wheeler. ‘She likes things tidy. You know that.’

 

Wheeler nods, a smile lighting his weary face. ‘Yeah, she does.’

 

Kwame leads them straight into Linka’s office.

 

‘What do you notice about this room first?’ He asks Wheeler, testing a theory.

 

Wheeler is staring at the room, at the litany of things about them that make up Linka’s home and life. A home and life he has never known, or played a part in.

 

‘It looks like she might walk in at any minute,’ the American replies uneasily.

 

‘Exactly,’ Kwame nods. ‘Look... her work is laid about, as though she were interrupted from it. There is a tea there, half-drunk. Her phone is still on her desk, abandoned.’

 

‘There’s a pregnancy test on her desk too,’ Wheeler remarks, and Kwame turns to him. His friend looks dumbstruck.

 

‘Yes,’ Kwame swallows. ‘Yes, there is.’

 

‘You’ve already seen it?’

 

Kwame swallows again. ‘Yes.’

 

‘Is it positive or negative?’ Wheeler demands.

 

‘My friend...’

 

‘It’s positive,’ Wheeler says flatly. ‘I know that voice you use, Kwame.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Lin’s pregnant.’

 

Kwame lays a hand on his shoulder. ‘I did not know how to tell you.’

 

‘Where the fuck is she, Kwame?’ Abruptly, Wheeler spins on his feet, facing him angrily. ‘Who the fuck took her?’

 

‘That is the thing, my friend,’ Kwame points to the scene before him. ‘I am not sure anyone  _ took her.’ _

 

‘You think she left?’ Wheeler asks, his voice still tight with indignation and anger. ‘You think she just left? Without a word to either of us?’

 

‘No,’ Kwame says. ‘Look... she was interrupted. She put her pen down  _ mid-word.  _ I think someone came to her door. Persuaded her to leave.’

 

‘Lin wouldn’t go with just anyone,’ Wheeler snaps. ‘She’s the smartest person I know. She wouldn’t just go with... with a stranger...’

 

Kwame looks at him helplessly. ‘What if it was not a stranger?’ He suggests.

 

Wheeler pauses. 

 

‘Who the fuck was it then?’

 

Kwame shakes his head. ‘I do not know. I cannot imagine who Lin would implicitly trust so as to just... just leave with them... not these days. Not after all she has been through.’

 

Wheeler’s fists were clenching and unclenching violently. ‘There’s no one she trusts but us,’ he spits out. ‘Whoever was here... whoever she went with... they must have forced her. She only trusts us, Kwame. There’s no one else.’

 

Kwame opens his mouth to speak, but before the words can leave his lips, a movement catches his eye behind them.

 

‘I disagree,’ a softer, more feminine voice breaks in.

 

Wheeler and Kwame both spin around, their mouths falling open as they take in the person who has just entered the room.

 

‘ _ Gi,’  _ Kwame breathes.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I had this Gi reveal in mind from the beginning and can’t wait to share the dialogue she uses next chapter.x


	16. Segway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for everything you’re about to read.
> 
> THERE IS A HEA COMING, I promise. Stick with me, please.

_ ‘Gi has gone.’ _

 

_ Linka’s words, spoken so quietly into the fetid warmth of his cabin, make Wheeler rouse slightly, and he sits up on his elbows to look at her. _

 

_ ‘What?’ he mumbles, through a mouth like cotton. His head pounds slightly and he’s ridiculously thirsty. Linka sits gingerly on the edge of his bed, and he notes a new pattern of bruises on her upper leg, a telltale circle of finger shaped marks, stark and accusing in the early morning light. _

 

_ He was too rough with her again. _

 

_ ‘Shit, babe,’ he says with a sigh, reaching for her. He runs a finger along the black and blue mottling of her skin. ‘I’m so sorry -’ _

 

_ But Linka puts a finger to his lips. ‘As am I,’ she says, running a hand over his bare shoulder. He winces when she presses down, ever-so-slightly, on the bite marks she has left behind. _

 

_ Wheeler sighs again, running a hand through his hair. Since Ma-Ti’s death, they’ve been having sex nearly constantly. It's been an addiction almost, to lose themselves in each other’s arms, and at the moment, it seems like the only way they can cope.  _

 

_ And he hates himself for it.  _

 

_ Hates that he’s trying to replace that last image of Ma-Ti, drowning in a glass coffin, with images of Linka, naked and on her back, being held down while he fucks her.  _

 

_ Hates that he can’t sleep unless Linka is at his side, soft and pliant and warm and forgiving. _

 

_ Hates that he’s reduced himself to begging, pleading with her never to leave him. _

 

_ And most of all, he hates that she doesn’t seem to mind. Hates that she lies there, soft and pliant and warm and forgiving, taking everything he gives her without question and responding to his pleas with words of love and compassion. _

 

_ Hates that all the fire in her seems to have been extinguished by his tears of grief. _

 

_ He’s adrift in a sea of loss, and Linka is the lifeboat to which he clings.  _

 

_ But he knows he’s drowning, knows he a lost cause, and if he doesn’t let her go, she’s going to sink right with him. _

 

_ He must be staring at her, because Linka bites on her lip, brushes his hair from his eyes, and runs a finger down his cheek. He hasn’t shaved in forever and she smiles at his beard. _

 

_ ‘Gi has gone,’ she says again, and he nods. _

 

_ ‘Yeah. I heard you.’ _

 

_ She pauses. ‘She took Ma-Ti’s ring -’ _

 

_ At that, Wheeler jumps up, his fists clenched in anger, the muscles of his body taut. _

 

_ ‘Fucking bitch,’ he spits. ‘She had no fucking right - no fucking right - who is she to...’ he takes a deep breath at the sudden panic on Linka’s face. He forces himself to relax. Forces himself to sit, to pull Linka into his arms and breathe in the smell of her neck. _

 

_ ‘Sorry,’ he mutters. ‘Sorry, sorry...’ _

 

_ ‘You are saying that word too much,’ Linka tells him. She pulls his face to hers and kisses him softly.  _

 

_ He’s drowning. _

 

_ He’s drowning, and he’s drowning her with him. _

 

_ ‘Sorry,’ he whispers again, and Linka kisses him once more. _

 

_ ‘Stop saying that,’ she pleads, ‘it was not your fault and -’ _

 

_ It’s easy to lose himself in her. Easy to silence her compassionate mercy with merciless passion. Easy to pull the clothes from her body, hold her down and make a whole new pattern of bruises on her skin. Easy to forget everything in blissful pleasure.  _

 

_ When it's finished, he cries on her shoulder. _

 

_ ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says, over and over until she is crying too. _

 

_ ‘Yankee, please, stop saying that.’ _

 

_ He’s drowning them both. He knows that. _

 

_ But he’s happy to drown in misery. He knows he deserves nothing less. _

 

_ But Linka? _

 

_ He can’t take her down with him. Can’t pull her into the black depths to which he so willingly sinks. _

 

_ He kisses her again, though softly this time. He’s tender with her; running loving hands over her curves, kissing each and every mark he’s ever left on her flesh. This time, he doesn’t hold her down. This time, he cups her face and looks into her eyes and tries to remember each and every detail about her smile, her features,how she looks when she takes her pleasure.  _

 

_ Images he knows will keep him sane in the years to come. Images he will treasure, hold onto like a keepsake of the heart, for the days when he knows her absence will cut through him like a knife. _

 

_ Images of a navsegda that will never come, little snippets of a future that was never to be theirs.  _

 

_ For a moment, his chest feels so tight he’s not certain he will ever breathe again. He feels heavy, lost, bereft and alone. _

 

_ He’s a drowning man, after all.  _

 

_ And today, he lets go of the only lifeboat he could ever want to keep him afloat. _

 

_ *** _

 

_ Linka sleeps afterwards, and he watches her. _

 

_ His decision made; he’s almost numb with relief and disbelief all at once. _

 

_ Ma-Ti wouldn’t let Wheeler drown for him. Ma-Ti pushed the button. Ma-Ti released them all. _

 

_ Well, he sure as hell won’t let Linka drown for him either. This time, he gets to push the button. _

 

_ This time, he’s going to release her too. _

 

_ With one final look at Linka, he gets up. _

 

_ He showers and shaves. He packs a bag. _

 

_ He leaves his cabin behind without a backwards glance. Waits on the shore, biding his time, wordlessly watching the waves break before him. _

 

_ A drowning man on dry land. _

 

_ Linka finds him on the beach a few hours later, and he knows with one glance that she’s frantic with worry, her eyes teary, her skin flustered. _

 

_ ‘Yankee,’ she exhales with relief when she spots him. She throws herself to the ground, wrapping her arms around him. _

 

_ But he pushes her away. _

 

_ ‘What?’ she asks, looking so wounded that he clenches his fists hard so as not to immediately comfort her. His fingernails cut into his palm, and blood seeps across his hand and into the sand. _

 

_ He stares at the ocean. _

 

_ ‘I’m gonna go back home and try new things,’ he says casually, squeezing his hand again, feeling more of his blood spill, directly from his heart.  _

 

_ He doesn’t look at her.  _

 

_ If he looks at her, he knows he’ll break. _

 

_ ‘What? Yankee... what do you mean...?’ she stammers, laying a hand on his arm. _

 

_ But he shakes it off as though she burns him. _

 

_ ‘This has been fun, but it's done now, you know?’ he carries on mercilessly. With a sigh, he throws himself back on the sand, bringing a bloodied hand to his face to cover his eyes. _

 

_ He knows that looking at the sun will blind him. So too will looking at Linka’s pain. Bile rises up in his throat, and he’s certain that if he looks at her now, he’ll vomit at her feet. _

 

_ ‘But Yankee...’ _

 

_ ‘You should too,’ he adds, ‘Try new things, I mean. New people.’ _

 

_ New men, his words imply.  _

 

_ Other men, better men, who aren’t drowning in a lake of their own making or agony. Men who will love her and care for her and treat her right. Men who will want her and need her and be unable to live without her.  _

 

_ Men like him, he thinks, with a fresh torrent of grief.  _

 

_ Because underneath everything, he knows that no one will ever love her like he does.  _

 

_ He chances a glance at her between his fingertips. She’s staring at him, chewing on her bottom lip. Her lip, which is still swollen and red from his earlier kisses. _

 

_ ‘Are you finished with the Planeteers... or just with me?’ she asks him slowly. _

 

_ He shrugs at her coolly. ‘Honey, you’re interchangeable. We’ve worked well together, both at work and in bed, but it's done now. Our time is up.’ _

 

_ She pales. ‘I do not believe you, Yankee... I do not think you mean it... I...’ _

 

_ ‘It doesn’t matter what you think or believe,’ he says harshly. ‘It never did. Not really. It’s basic arithmetic, babe. Once you were convenient, and now you’re not.’ _

 

_ At that, she stifles a gasp.  _

 

_ Or maybe it's a sob. _

 

_ ‘We can still be friends, of course,’ he tells her easily. ‘You can call me, whenever you like.’ _

 

_ But she only shakes her head. It’s ducked now, her shoulders heaving as she cries. He stares at her, wanting nothing more than to hold her close and brush the tears from her skin.  _

 

_ But he doesn’t. He simply stares at her, hating himself. _

 

_ He’s drowning. _

 

_ And at this point, it feels like it’s in a sea of hate. _

 

_ ‘I think you are a very good actor,’ she says brokenly. ‘I think you do not -’ _

 

_ ‘And I think you’re a very good lay,’ he interrupts her. ‘But like I said, we’re done now. It’s been fun, but it's time to move on.’ _

 

_ She reaches for him one more time, but he stands and steps away from her openly crying form. _

 

_ ‘Linka,’ he says, wanting to leave her with at least one honest thought. With one genuine piece of a heart which will always and forever be hers. ‘I’m not worth cryin’ over, babe. I never was, and I never will be.’ _

 

_ He walks away from her, his heart pounding, his stomach turning. _

 

_ His heart and soul feel dead. He is a drowned man, inexplicably still walking. _

 

_ His death was prolonged. His death was agony. _

 

_ He drowned, after all. _

 

_ Drowned in a sea of Linka’s tears. _

 

_ *** _

 

_  He’s been a month at home when Trish comes to see him. _

 

_ His Mom lets her in, ushers her through to his room like he’s still fucking sixteen, before leaving them to it. _

 

_ He stares at the girl dumbly, wondering why her hair is the wrong shade of blonde, the angles of her face all wrong and her voice strange, when it hits him like a ton of bricks. _

 

_ Right. She’s not Linka. _

 

_ ‘You’re back,’ Trish comments, sliding onto his bed and nestling into the crook of his arm like it's the good old days of ragtag-underprivileged-children yore. _

 

_ ‘Yeah.’ _

 

_ He allows himself to trace patterns over her arm with his free hand. It feels good and bad all at once to touch another person’s skin again. _

 

_ ‘You’re here alone?’ Trish asks. _

 

_ ‘Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?’ _

 

_ She snorts. ‘Not like you not to have someone on the go.’ _

 

_ He shrugs.  _

 

_ ‘Where’s Blondie?’ Trish asks lightly, though he can hear the hidden malice in her words. ‘Get bored of you, did she?’ _

 

_ ‘Nope. I got bored of her,’ the lie slips so easily from his tongue even he’s amazed by how genuine he sounds. _

 

_ Trish smiles. _

 

_ ‘Your Mom says you’ve been sulkin’ away in your room for weeks now,’ she remarks. She shifts slightly so that her hips press into his groin, and he pauses.  _

 

_ ‘Really?’ he asks. _

 

_ ‘Yeah,’ Trish carries on, shifting again so that her shirt rides up a little, exposing the skin of her hip.  _

 

_ Momentarily, he thinks of Linka, of bruised flesh and kiss-swollen lips and soft sighs against his neck. His body responds to the image, and Trish almost purrs in his arms.  _

 

_ ‘I’m not sulkin’,’ he replies bluntly. ‘I’m just dead inside, is all.’ _

 

_ At that, Trish laughs. She sits up, pulling her shirt over her head and reaching behind her back to unclasp her bra. _

 

_ ‘Dead inside? Really?’ she looks down at him, picking up his hands and laying them across her breasts. ‘Poor Wheeler,’ she hums. ‘Well... let’s see if I can revive you, then. Bring you back to the land of the livin’.’ _

 

_ He feels sick. His body is aroused, but his heart is a husk. His betrayal of Linka, he realises, is now complete. He lied to her with his words, turned away from her with his heart, and now, will betray her with his body. _

 

_ ‘Wheeler?’ Trish calls to him, and he sits up, silencing the question in her eyes with his lips against hers. _

 

_ It’s all too easy to move against her and inside her. All too easy to fall back into familiar and comfortable habits.  _

 

_ All too easy to lie there afterwards, Trish content in his arms, a dead weight against his chest. _

 

_ It’s a fitting match, he decides.  _

 

_ He’s dead inside, after all. _

 

_ *** _

__

For a moment he and Kwame stare at Gi, before a rush of air he didn’t even know he was holding exits his lungs and he lunges at her, swinging her off her feet and into his arms, before holding her against him and kissing the top of her dark head.

 

‘Gi,’ he exhales again. ‘Gi... Gi... oh God, Gi.’

 

Gi giggles happily, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek.

 

‘Hey, Red,’ she says easily. ‘You look like shit.’

 

He pretends to be offended. ‘And you look like the worst kind of K-pop band reject,’ he remarks, taking in the bubblegum pink jacket she wears, the pair of black and white checked loafers on her feet, and the bright, almost comically girlish make-up she has smeared across her cheeks. ‘What of it?’

 

‘Hey, this counts as high fashion these days,’ she replies, and Wheeler can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. Because this is just like the old days, almost, and -

 

And he stops, because abruptly and instinctively he  _ knows _ that this is not like the old days, recognising that something is off about this entire scene. Something is different, something is uncomfortable, and it's not just the missing Ma-Ti, or the absent Linka... it's something else. Something worrying.

 

Kwame.

 

Wheeler turns, looking at his friend and wondering why he is just standing there, why he isn’t moving to also embrace Gi, why he is just staring at her, as though she’s a stranger, and not someone they’ve both been missing for years. He sees a tension to Kwame’s neck, a stiffness to his jaw, and he turns back to Gi, who’s still smiling at him, her bobbed hair sleek and familiar, her all pink ensemble giving him a serious feeling of déjà vu.

 

‘We’ve been worried about you, Gi,’ Wheeler says softly. ‘Where you been all this time, hey?’

 

Gi still smiles at him, but it's unmoving now, frozen across her cheeks.

 

‘I’ve been fixing things,’ she replies easily, and Wheeler’s insides seem to freeze.

 

‘Fixin’ things?’ he asks, ‘fixin’ what, Gi honey?’

 

But Gi doesn’t reply, only looking up at him with her placid smile. Her eyes look hollow, almost empty and all too void of their usual sparkle, and Wheeler steps back, closer to Kwame.

 

‘You boys bring your rings with you?’ Gi asks. She’s still smiling, and Wheeler immediately looks at her hand, seeing her water ring snug against her finger. Nestled next to it is Ma-Ti’s heart ring, and Wheeler inhales sharply.

 

‘Yeah,’ Wheeler replies warily. He always carries his ring with him.

 

Old habits die hard for him, it seems.

 

But Kwame shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says clearly. ‘Mine is in a safe place.’

 

‘Where?’ Gi asks sharply, and Kwame stands taller. 

 

‘A safe place,’ he says again, more firmly.

 

Wheeler knows he’s lying. They’d briefly discussed his ring and Haya on the drive to Linka’s place. Wheeler knows that since Haya inadvertently used his earth ring, that Kwame has been keeping it close.

 

‘I cannot let her near it until she is more practised with it's power,’ Kwame had told him, his parental concern evident in the worry of his eyes. ‘When Linka is home, when Haya is a little older, I will sit with her. Teach her how to use it.’

 

‘You think Haya will be the next Earth Planeteer?’ Wheeler had asked, and Kwame had nodded.

 

‘You remember what Gaia said, just after Ma-Ti died, and she was about to leave us? That she would return once the rings had called to new owners. I do not think it is coincidence that Sam and I were drawn to adopting Haya. I think the rings choose their carrier from birth... I think she was always destined to be the next Earth Planeteer, and thus my daughter.’

 

‘Shit,’ Wheeler had exhaled. ‘That’s heavy. You reckon somewhere out there is a new Fire Planeteer too?’

 

Kwame nodded again. ‘Before she disappeared, I discussed the matter with Linka. We believe all five Planeteers have been chosen. The rings will start to call to their new owners. It would not surprise me if your ring starts to behave...’ Kwame paused. ‘Well, if it starts to behave  _ erratically  _ over the next few years.’

 

Wheeler thought about the ring buried deep within his luggage. Thought about the joy being a Planeteer had brought to him, but also, the danger and despair and heartbreak.

 

‘Poor bastard,’ he’d sighed, ‘they don’t know what they’ve got comin’.’

 

‘No... no they do not. I only hope they are less hot-headed than you,’ abruptly, Kwame grinned. ‘And that the wind ring does not call an attractive, accented blonde to work beside him.’

 

But there were no smiles on Kwame’s face now.

 

‘Gi,’ he begins slowly. ‘How did you get in here? I’m certain Wheeler and I closed the door behind us when we came in.’

 

Wheeler turns to her, watching for her reaction.

 

‘I’m good with locks these days,’ Gi shrugs. ‘Besides, Linka won’t mind.’

 

Wheeler steps closer to Kwame again. ‘You know where she is, Gi?’ he asks her gently.

 

Gi smiles at him, though her eyes lock with Kwame’s. ‘She’s in a safe place,’ she tells them. 

 

‘A safe place?’ Now, Wheeler feels a dart of rage run through him. ‘Where? Where is this safe place, Gi?’

 

‘I was just about to ask Kwame the same question,’ Gi replies.

 

But Kwame remains silent.

 

‘Fine,’ Gi sighs. Suddenly, she flops down onto Linka’s sofa, her eyes trailing to Linka’s desk, to the pregnancy test sitting upon her paperwork. ‘Oh,’ she remarks flatly. ‘You know then?’ She asks Wheeler.

 

He nods. ‘Only just.’

 

‘Happy?’ Gi asks him.

 

‘I will be,’ he says, ‘once I have Linka back.’

 

‘She’s fine, I promise you,’ Gi says. She seems more inclined to be kind to him than Kwame right now. ‘She was a little groggy at first, when she woke up from the sedative, kept babbling about sat navs, or Segways, or something... anyway, we ran some blood tests on her and everything came back a-ok.’

 

It feels like a punch to Wheeler’s chest and his fists clench tightly. ‘Navsegda...’ he mutters, and Gi snaps her fingers. 

 

‘Yes. That was it. She kept going on and on about it. Didn’t make any sense to any of us. What’s it mean, Red?’

 

But Wheeler only stares at her. ‘You got her, Gi?’

 

‘I told you already, Red. She’s in a safe place.’

 

‘Safest place for her is with me,’ he tells her firmly. ‘I wouldn’t have to sedate her.’

 

‘It was to keep her calm,’ Gi instantly protests. ‘Getting worked up isn’t good for her baby. She’s ten weeks pregnant... stress can cause all kinds of damage at this stage and -’

 

Something ugly crawls up Wheeler’s spine. Something ugly and unbelievable and inconceivable and his blood turns to ice in his veins.

 

‘Six weeks pregnant,’ he corrects Gi through a mouth that is suddenly, painfully dry. ‘She’s only six weeks pregnant. She can’t be ten weeks. It isn’t possible.’

 

He hears Kwame inhale sharply behind him, and Gi looks at him with a sudden pity.

 

‘I told you, we ran blood tests on her when she first arrived. Her HCG levels - that’s a hormone a woman secretes during pregnancy, by the way - were in the range of a woman ten to twelve weeks pregnant.’

 

‘Your tests were wrong -’ Wheeler starts to argue, but Gi shakes her head.

 

‘Sorry Red,’ she says. ‘She’s ten weeks pregnant. The tests don’t lie. I can also tell you that the baby is a boy. There was male DNA in her blood.’

 

The rooms falls into silence, and Gi sighs. ‘The baby isn’t yours, is it?’ she asks Wheeler plainly.

 

But he doesn’t reply. He can’t. Words, at this point, fail him.

 

‘Well, come on then boys,’ Gi suddenly stands, pointing to the door. 

 

‘Where are we going?’ Kwame asks. His hand is suddenly on Wheeler’s shoulder, but Wheeler feels numb all over, and hardly feels it.

 

‘To see my boss,’ Gi replies easily. ‘She’s helping me. We have a.... An exchange of sorts planned.’

 

‘Your boss?’ Kwame asks.

 

But they all already know the answer to this question.

 

Gi nods. ‘Yes,’ she says easily. ‘Doctor Blight and I have been waiting a long time for this moment.’

 

__

 

__

 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Linka/Wheeler next chapter. It’s going to be rough, so buckle up.


	17. Hysteria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Chapter count went up. I split this chapter in two as it was nearly 7000 words long and very heavy hitting.

_ ‘You should marry me.’ _

 

_ The words are spoken so lightly, so coolly, that Helena has to turn towards the door to make sure she’s heard him correctly. _

 

_ ‘What did you say?’ _

 

_ ‘That you should marry me,’ Richard replies easily, roping his tie around his neck. _

 

_ ‘Should I now?’ Helena teases, smiling at him. ‘I cannot cook, I cannot sew, I cannot knit. I would make any man a terrible wife.’ _

 

_ But he’s not in the mood for another of her playful attempts at deflection. _

 

_ ‘I’m serious, Yelena,’ he says, more firmly now. ‘This has gone on long enough.’ _

 

_ ‘What has?’ she asks, although she already knows the answer. _

 

_ ‘You and I... doing this,’ he replies, looking at her seriously. ‘We date, we sleep together, we spend all our time together... in fact, we do everything a couple is meant to do, without ever actually being a couple. Not an official one, at least. But then, everytime I want to make things more serious, talk about moving in together, or marriage... you run. You break things off, cool things down -’  _

 

_ ‘You are the one who breaks things off, normally,’ Helena interrupts, somewhat indignant. _

 

_ ‘Only because you force my hand,’ he replies calmly. He walks over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. He runs a hand down her naked leg, sighing as he looks at her. ‘I love you, you know that. That’s why I keep coming back to you. Again and again and again. Everytime I think I’m cured of you, you draw me back in, and we start the dance all over.’ _

 

_ She looks down, at the blanket clutched to her chest, the white and blue pattern of her sheets stark beneath her fingertips. Richard sighs again, pulling her to him and running a hand through her hair. _

 

_ ‘You’re going to be what? Twenty-nine on your next birthday?’ _

 

_ She nods wordlessly. _

 

_ ‘Time to start thinking about settling down, Yelena,’ he says evenly. ‘I’m a good man -’ _

 

_ ‘I know that,’ she argues instantly, but he shakes his head. _

 

_ ‘Let me finish. I’m a good man, Yelena,’ he looks at her, his heart in his eyes. She hates that it makes her so uncomfortable to see him so open. ‘I have a good job. A good salary,’ he carries on. ‘We’re a good match, you and I. We would be a good team, as husband and wife. I’d like us to get married. Buy a house together. Maybe have a family, one day.’ _

 

_ She stares at him. ‘You want children?’ she asks in surprise, wondering why they have never had this conversation before. _

 

_ ‘Yes,’ he says simply. ‘With you I do.’ _

 

_ She bites on her lip, looking down again, and away from the sudden intensity in his eyes. _

 

_ ‘I know you don’t love me -’ he begins, and she goes to talk, puts a hand on his chest, an empty gesture of reassurance, before he stops her. ‘I know you don’t love me,’ he tries again, ‘not in the way you think love should be, at any rate. But we aren’t children anymore, Yelena. Love isn’t just passion and sex and desire. Love is also steady, warm, comforting, and capable of growth,’ he sighs, brushing a hand across her cheek. ‘I think, if you ever gave me a chance, you could grow to love me.’ _

 

_ ‘Richard -’ _

 

_ ‘I want you to think about this, and I mean seriously,’ he tells her. ‘I want you to really consider me as a long-term option, and if you decide against me and the future I can offer you, I want you to think about why that is, about what you’re waiting for here. Kwame says -’ _

 

_ ‘You spoke to Kwame?’ _

 

_ There’s a sudden ice to her voice that she hadn’t intended, and for a moment, Richard recoils.  _

 

_ ‘Yes,’ he admits. ‘He knows you better than anyone else. Even me.’ _

 

_ ‘What did you tell him? What did he say?’ _

 

_ Richard moves closer to her again, kissing her bare shoulder. ‘He thinks you are frightened of being hurt again.’ He breathes out on her skin, the air warm and gentle. ‘I always suspected you carried heartbreak with you,’ he says kindly, ‘but I’ve never asked you... you’ve never said a word about -’ _

 

_ ‘There is nothing to tell,’ Helena says helplessly. _

 

_ Richard tilts her chin up, so that she is forced to look him in the eye. ‘If that were true, we would already be married.’ _

 

_ ‘Did Kwame tell you?’ She asks hurriedly. ‘Did he talk about...?’  _

 

_ She can’t even bring herself to say his name. _

 

_ Richard shakes his head. ‘What do you think?’ He asks her, and Helena exhales, silently thankful for Kwame’s tact. _

 

_ He would never tell Richard about Wheeler. Not until she has. _

 

_ ‘I’m not going to ask you now,’ he says, standing up. ‘One day, I know you’ll tell me. I just have to be patient and -’ _

 

_ But Helena shakes her head. She never talks about Wheeler. Not if she can help it. It’s too painful, too raw.  _

 

_ But Richard sees her panic, and only nods. _

 

_ ‘You’ll tell me one day,’ he says again, with a confidence Helena envies. ‘One day you’ll trust me enough to tell me, and Yelena, I really think that will be the point where it will start to hurt less.’ _

 

_ She nods without speaking.  _

 

_ She nods without believing him.  _

 

_ Because she knows she will never be able to talk of Wheeler without pain. Without feeling, once again, the acute agony at his loss, without remembering the callous way with which he disposed of her. Without missing him so much, that she’s not certain how she’s ever gone nearly nine years without him, or his tasteless one-liners, or his warm grin, or that damnable, adorable, infectious twinkle in his eye. _

 

_ She must look woebegone, because Richard’s face softens, and he sits beside her once more. _

 

_ ‘I’m not an idiot, Yelena,’ he says softly. ‘It doesn’t take much to look up the Planeteers, to find pictures of you from the past.’ He swallows, suddenly pausing. ‘He was an attractive boy. I can see why you liked him.’ _

 

_ She looks up at him, a stunned expression on her face. He takes one of her hands, and squeezes it gently. _

 

_ ‘One day you’ll tell me, yes?’ he kisses her fingers. ‘And one day, you’ll marry me too.’ _

 

_ The way he says it, she knows it isn’t a question. In his mind, Richard has it all mapped out. The quiet engagement, the quaint English wedding. The semi-detached house in a good part of Cambridge. The two children, with his sharp intellect and her fine, wispy blonde hair. The dinner parties and tennis games and day trips to London and the solid pieces of furniture, the inexpensive works of art, decorating it all. _

 

_ A future entirely devoid of tasteless one-liners and warm grins and damnable, adorable and infectious eye twinkles. A future devoid of humour and passion and desire. A future written so meticulously, so prettily, that she knows in twenty years she will wake up and wonder exactly what happened to Linka Mikhailovna Orlova. She’ll be sitting in her living room, Richard by her side, framed photographs of their children on the walls, and she’ll realise something is missing. She’ll search through cabinets and cupboards, unable to put her finger on exactly what she has lost, before rummaging through old files and bookcases, suddenly desperate to reclaim it. And then, when she passes a mirror in her hall, it will come to her. She’ll turn to her reflection and her mouth will open in shock.     _

 

_ Because she will be what is missing.  _

 

_ A life with Richard would be a good life, and objectively, Helena realises that. But it would also be a compromised one, a life she settled for, rather than a life she sought or desired or even earned. Because she hasn’t earned Richard’s love, she knows that. She’s never been real around him, not like she was around Wheeler. Richard loves the calm, measured, icily intelligent woman with her Cambridge degrees, packaged in an appealing tall and blonde package. He hasn’t seen her at her worst, because she’s never allowed him to see beyond the mask of Helena that she wears, the front she puts on to the world to hide the hurt beneath.  _

 

_ Wheeler saw her at her worst, of course. He saw her dirty and messy and unbrushed and unkempt, and he loved her anyway. He saw her in the worst of her temper tantrums, foot stamping and shouting and stalking away in a huff, and he loved her more for it, matching her in her fervour. He saw her sweaty and broken and emotionally open, and he encouraged her in those moments. He broke through her mask within only a few days of knowing her, and she never needed to wear one around him again. With Wheeler, she could be Linka, her true self. _

 

_ A true self Richard has never seen, probably has no idea even exists. _

 

_ She stares at Richard, at his confident tone and straight back, everything about his stance and face letting her know he has made a decision, and that he means to stick to it, and she opens her mouth to speak, to tell him that - _

 

_ But Richard puts a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t do this again,’ he tells her. ‘Don’t run from this. Please. At least consider it for a few days. You don’t have to decide right away.’ _

 

_ She already has decided though, hasn’t she? The future she briefly considered with Richard, the semi-detached house and nice holidays and solid pieces of furniture, has already faded quickly from her mind, along with him, and the images of the sons and daughters she will never bear him. _

 

_ Abruptly she sighs, unwilling to hurt him again. ‘Alright,’ she agrees.  _

 

_ Richard’s smile is blinding. ‘If you say yes, I’ll buy you the best ring out there. You never wear jewelry, I know... but a diamond like you deserves a diamond on her finger.’ _

 

_ She winces, watching as he busies himself about her room, finding the pieces of clothing he abandoned hurriedly the night before. _

 

_ ‘I had a bracelet, once,’ she says softly. Inadvertently, she traces the line around her wrist where Wheeler’s gift once sat. _

 

_ ‘Diamonds, was it?’ Richard asks, still smiling. _

 

_ ‘No,’ Helena replies. ‘It was made of rope. Rope, with a silver clasp.’ _

 

_ Richard looks at her. ‘What happened to it?’ _

 

_ She shrugs. ‘I do not know. It is probably in landfill, somewhere.’ _

 

_ She wishes she had kept it, now. Wishes she had not abandoned it on the step of Wheeler’s cabin, the night that he finished with her. Wishes she had not immediately thrown anything and everything she had of his back at him.  _

 

_ She wonders if he stopped to pick it up. She wonders if he kept it, that first gift of love between them. _

 

_ Probably not, she tells herself sternly. He probably crushed it with the heel of his shoe the day he left Hope Island to rush back to Trish’s arms.  _

 

_ She looks up at Richard again. _

 

_ ‘I will think about your question,’ she tells him. _

 

_ ‘Good,’ he replies, planting a kiss on the top of her head. ‘You’re a grown-up, Yelena. Time to start acting like one.’ _

 

_ *** _

 

When Linka’s eyes flutter open, she’s in a windowless room. The bed beneath her is soft and comfortable, stacked with pillows and blankets, and she sits up, taking in her surroundings. 

 

For the most part, it looks like a hotel room. The walls are papered in a gentle, inoffensive pattern, and the carpet is neutral, warm beneath her toes. There’s a small desk and chair, a few lamps, and a bathroom, tiled and plumbed, with hot and cold running water. 

 

She tries to hold down the rising sense of panic that has threatened to engulf her since Gi first had people manhandle her into a car, since the sedative was injected into her arm. Her hand flutters down to her stomach, a protective and reassuring gesture, and she forces herself to take a deep breath, an attempt to calm herself however she can. 

 

She gets up, noting that she has been dressed in a pair of pyjamas that look terrifyingly familiar. Her mouth drops open when she realises they are from her cabin on Hope Island, one of the items she abandoned in her hurry to leave the place after Ma-Ti died, Gi disappeared, and Wheeler finished with her. 

 

‘Gi went back,’ she whispers in disbelief, fingering the worn cotton against her hip gently. 

 

She takes another deep breath, turning to the desk. It is stacked with her things from Hope Island... magazines and books and letters. Her keyboard is in a corner of the room, as is her guitar, and her chess set is propped against the table. Suddenly, she notes the litany of postcards and photographs above the desk. All from Hope Island, all relics of a past she has spent nearly a decade running from.

 

‘Bozhe moi,’ she whispers. She sits at the desk with a thump, looking in vain for her computer. 

 

But Linka knows that Gi isn’t an idiot. Giving her a computer here would be like handing her the keys to this prison cell, because a prison cell it is, with it's locked doors and zero access points to the outside world.

 

Briefly, Linka wonders what Gi intends to do with her. Strangely, she suspects harming her isn’t on the agenda - not for the interim, at least. Gi had been, given the circumstances, strangely happy to see her, and, as the sedative took effect, had gently lain Linka down, stroking her hair while she fell into unconsciousness. 

 

No, if Linka had to guess, she would put money on being here both to serve a purpose, and as bait for Kwame and Wheeler.

 

At that thought, she swallows hard. 

 

‘Do not follow me, Yankee,’ she whispers, her hand travelling to her stomach once more. ‘Do not follow me.’

 

There is comfort, at least, in realising that Kwame will be reasonable, and wary of Gi. Linka knows that where she is concerned, Wheeler will be all fire and fury, cutting through anyone and anything that endangers her. But Kwame? He will be earthy and methodical, with attention paid to the smallest of dangers. Linka closes her eyes, wishing she could be with them. She’s the like the wind, in a way. She blows hot or cold, as her feelings or the situation dictates. She’s sometimes blustery, sometimes still, occasionally nothing more than a calm ripple in a storm. She would flow between the two boys, cooling Wheeler’s fire, rousing Kwame’s earthy calm. 

 

Gaia was right, Linka thinks, opening her eyes. They work better as a team. Gaia chose her Planeteers well.

 

Tears sting Linka’s eyes, as once more, she misses and mourns the only mother she ever knew. She wishes Gaia were here now. Gaia would know what to do, how to reach Gi.

 

Gi, slippery like her element, capable of saving them all, or drowning them with her pain.

 

A sudden nausea strikes Linka hard, and she rushes to the bathroom to vomit. For half an hour, she retches up the contents of her mostly empty stomach, and by the time she’s done, she’s damp with sweat yet shaking with cold on the floor. 

 

She misses her Yankee. She wishes he were there. Under better circumstances, she knows he would hold back her hair and rub her back and talk to her stomach. Under better circumstances, he would talk her through the rough mornings, his sense of humour a light she could cling to.

 

But, the circumstances being what they are, he doesn’t know about this baby, Linka thinks. 

 

And she can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Her hand rests on her belly, and she heaves back a sob.

 

‘Do not follow me, Yankee,’ she whispers again. ‘Do not follow me.’

 

When the bathroom door opens an hour later, Linka is still on the floor. 

 

‘Oh my God, Lin,’ Gi suddenly cries, sinking to the floor and pulling Linka into her arms. ‘Oh my God, come on, get up. You need to eat something. You’ll feel better if you eat.’

 

Linka’s too weak to protest, and rests against Gi as the smaller woman leads her back to her bed. Gi fusses over her, wrapping blankets around her and pulling out an ipad, her finger tapping over it rapidly.

 

‘What do you feel like?’ Gi asks, her face full of concern. ‘Pancakes? You always liked American style pancakes... or maybe eggs would be better. Protein is good for you, and the baby. Yes, eggs. Scrambled though, not boiled...’ Gi smiles at her. ‘Can't risk you getting... what is it? Salmonella? Or hysteria?’

 

‘Listeria,’ Linka whispers.

 

Gi nods. ‘I have to take care of you; Wheeler will kill me if I let anything happen to you or his kid.’

 

Linka stares at Gi, confused. ‘You sedated me,’ she says lowly, her voice full of accusation.

 

‘Well, you were panicking,’ Gi replies calmly. ‘I saw your pregnancy test when I came to get you. Stress isn’t good for you or the baby,’ she pats Linka’s head, as though she were a small child. ‘And like I said, Wheeler will kill me if anything happens to you or his baby.’

 

‘Wheeler?’ Linka asks, still dazed.

 

‘He’ll be here soon, don’t worry,’ Gi reassures her. ‘He’s right on schedule, as I predicted. I’m going to collect him and Kwame later, from your place.’

 

‘Will you sedate them too?’ Linka asks frostily, and Gi looks up, suddenly sharp.

 

‘If I have to,’ she replies. ‘But I don’t think it will come to that. Wheeler will be frantic for you. He’ll follow anyone who has you. Kwame might be more...’ Gi pauses. ‘ _ Problematic.  _ But that’s okay. I’ll figure it out.’

 

Suddenly, a wave of peace seems to wash over Gi’s face, and she embraces Linka clumsily.

 

‘Lin... Lin... things are going to be so much better once we’re all together again. You, me, and our boys.’

 

Linka shakes her head. ‘No... no... things will never go back to the way they were. Deep down, you know that.’

 

A flicker of doubt lights in Gi’s eyes, before it is snuffed out rapidly. ‘No,’ she says, more firmly. ‘Once we’re all together again, things will be exactly as they were before. Of course, there’s your baby to consider... but I always figured Wheeler would knock you up one of these days, and, you know... baby makes six might be wonderful.’

 

Linka stares at her in horror. 

 

‘What do you mean?’ she asks slowly. ‘Baby makes six?’

 

Gi stares back at her blankly. ‘You, me, Kwame, Wheeler, Ma-Ti, and your baby. Six. Gee, and I thought you were the genius here, Lin.’

 

‘Ma-Ti is dead,’ Linka says softly. ‘You know that, Gi.’

 

But Gi only smiles. 

 

‘Lin... Lin... I can’t wait for you to see him. He’s beautiful. After breakfast, we’ll go right to the lab to visit with him.’

 

A deep current of fear runs through Linka, and she edges away from Gi, her hand on her stomach once more.

 

‘Who is beautiful, Gi?’ she asks, although she already knows and fears the answer.

 

Gi smiles at her as though she’s an idiot. And maybe, under the circumstances, she is an idiot, Linka thinks.

 

Because she never could have foreseen this.

 

‘Ma-Ti,’ Gi answers her every nightmare. ‘He’s just... well, I can’t wait for you to see him. Wheeler might be cross with me at first... for taking you. But once he sees Ma-Ti... well, you’ll all understand where I’ve been. What I’ve been doing all these years.’ She takes a deep breath, that dumbly peaceful expression crossing her face once more. ‘It’s been worth the wait. Worth all of the effort.’

 

‘I.. I do not think I wish to see him,’ Linka says weakly.

 

But Gi shakes her head. ‘Of course you do. You just need to eat something. Look, I’m going to go and get your breakfast, and you’re going to eat every mouthful, if I have to feed you myself,’ she laughs, but it sounds hollow to Linka’s ears. ‘Stay here, like a good girl, okay?’

 

But Linka couldn’t move, even if she wanted to.

 

She’s frozen with shock and fear.

 

The door opens and then closes behind Gi, and Linka blinks back tears, hugging a pillow to her chest.

 

‘Do not follow me, Yankee,’ she prays this time. ‘Do not follow me to this.’

  
  
  


  
  


__

  
  
  
  
  


__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are ways to deal with grief, and Gi’s answer is not it. 
> 
> Poor Gi. I’m sorry for doing this to her.
> 
> Still a HEA, I promise.


	18. HCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to a wedding next week and have a work deadline, so probably won’t get a chance to edit or update. So, here, have 5000 words of angst.

Gi has them blindfolded and their hands tied, before they are shoved into the back of a moving vehicle. 

 

‘Where do you think we’re goin’?’ Wheeler asks Kwame quietly, hearing the even, slightly shallow breaths of the man next to him.

 

‘I do not know,’ Kwame replies softly.

 

‘She’s takin’ us to Blight,’ Wheeler mutters darkly. ‘That can only be a bad thing for us, Kwame.’

 

‘Yes,’ Kwame agrees. ‘But she is also taking us to Linka, which is a good thing, yes?’

 

Wheeler pauses, and Kwame sighs.

 

‘I am sorry the baby is not yours, old friend. But now is not the time to think of that.’

 

Wheeler exhales bitterly. ‘It’s the only thing I can think of, right now.’

 

Kwame does not reply, and Wheeler pulls at his restraints unhappily. He kicks his legs and tries to flex his arms, twisting his body from side to side until he is breathless with exertion.

 

‘Fuck!’ He finally shouts, kicking the side of the van they are in. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why the fuck do I run, why the fuck do I exercise, if I can’t even break out of a few fuckin’ pieces of rope?!’

 

‘Then do not try,’ Kwame lectures, a hint of impatience in his voice. ‘Save your energy for what is to come. Blight wants us for something. Wait until we know what that is before we fight, friend.’

 

‘Patience was never my strong point,’ Wheeler snaps, ‘we should be fightin’ this, Kwame. We shouldn’t just be sittin’ here like lame ducks, makin’ plans for circumstances we don’t know or understand, when we could be gettin’ out of these restraints and -’ 

 

‘And what?’ Kwame asks sharply. ‘And what, Wheeler? Get out and run back home? Get out and fight, with only our fists, against guns and syringes filled with sedatives? Think it through, you fool. There is nothing we can do right now, except sit, and see what happens.’

 

‘They’ll kill us all -’ 

 

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Kwame replies coolly. ‘But we are not - and I will say it again, for your benefit - we are  _ not  _ running into this situation all flame and bluster like we did on that final -’

 

Abruptly, Kwame stops, and Wheeler gives a bitter laugh.

 

‘Say it,’ he jeers. ‘Go on, say it, you know you want to. Say it. Just get it out there.’

 

‘Like we did on that final mission,’ Kwame spits out, and Wheeler’s fists clench.

 

‘Yeah, that final mission was all my fault, wasn’t it? I’m the reason Ma-Ti ended up dead,’ he gives an ugly laugh. ‘I always knew you thought that. Good to know I was right about somethin’ for once.’

 

When he speaks, Kwame’s voice is quiet. ‘Fuck you, Wheeler,’ he says, with a venom unfamiliar to Wheeler’s ears. ‘That final mission was a trap; no matter what we did, we would’ve ended up in those glass coffins. But yes, we rushed in, at your behest. You know it, and I know it. Being bitter about it will not change anything.’

 

‘Fuck you too,’ Wheeler snaps back. ‘You don’t know what I was goin’ through then, what I’ve gone through ever since -’

 

‘No,’ Kwame interjects. ‘No, I don’t. You never gave anyone the chance to find out though, did you? You ran off, remember? One morning I woke up and Linka was in my cabin. ‘He’s gone,’ she kept saying to me. It took me hours to calm her down. You left, sneaking away, just like Gi, without even saying goodbye. And do you know why you did that, Wheeler? Because you felt guilty. Because you knew, just like I did, that you rushed into that final mission because you were keen to get it over with. Eager to move on to your new life with Linka, away from the Planeteers. Well, in your hurry Ma-Ti ended up dead, and in your guilt you abandoned the one thing that ever mattered to you.’

 

Abruptly, Kwame fell silent, and Wheeler could hear the deep breaths he was taking, could picture the reliable expanse of his chest rising and falling as he gathered his thoughts and emotions. 

 

‘Kwame -’ Wheeler begins, awkwardly, but his friend stops him.

 

‘If you abandon her again, if you walk away from her once more, without explanation or reason, I will never speak to you again, do you hear me?’

 

Wheeler feels the wind knocked out of his lungs. ‘Kwame -’ he splutters.

 

But Kwame’s voice is stern. ‘You broke her heart once before. If you do it again, without facing her like a man, then you and I are finished, and I will want or have nothing to do with you. I understand, it is difficult for you. She is pregnant with another man’s child... I can understand why that might be hard. But she has done nothing wrong. So, if you decide you cannot love her after this, well... you must tell her. Truthfully and honestly. But if you walk away, without saying a word... well, then you will be the worst kind of man, and I will never speak to you again.’

 

Wheeler sighs. His hands are tied, and he cannot rub his neck, or run a hand through his hair, or indulge in any of the usual nervous expressions he falls upon when he feels exposed or vulnerable.

 

‘I’m always gonna love her,’ he replies suddenly, his words soft. ‘I’m never not gonna love that girl.’

 

For a moment, Kwame is quiet. 

 

‘Then you must learn to move forward with this situation, as it is.’

 

‘She’s havin’ someone else’s baby, Kwame.’

 

‘Mmm. Yes. A boy.’

 

Wheeler pauses, feels that knife of pain run through him once more. ‘Linka’s son,’ he says, trying the words out in his mouth, like he would a fine wine.

 

Only this drink tastes sour, a deep bitterness on his tongue.

 

‘I always wanted a boy,’ Kwame says suddenly, and Wheeler almost smiles.

 

‘Yeah. Me too.’

 

‘You could have one,’ Kwame says gently. ‘You already love the mother. You could love the boy too.’

 

‘He’ll always be someone else’s,’ Wheeler replies, his voice tinged with sadness.

 

‘Yes. Like my Haya.’

 

Wheeler wishes he weren’t blindfolded. Wishes he could turn to his friend.

 

‘What do you mean?’

 

‘Haya is my daughter; mine and Sam’s. But she will always be someone else’s too... the parents who birthed her. I am her father, Sam is her father, but we accept that somewhere out there, probably still in Syria, is the man who gave her life. The man who perhaps gave her those cheeks we love to kiss. The man who might have given her that smile we cherish, the thick hair we braid, or the crooked teeth that will cost us a fortune in orthodontics.’

 

When he speaks of his adopted daughter, Kwame’s voice is warm, full of love. 

 

Momentarily, it takes Wheeler’s breath away.

 

‘You resent him?’ he asks.

 

But Kwame only laughs. ‘No, my friend, we are thankful to him. He made Haya part of who she is, just as her mother did, and just as Sam and I do now,’ he pauses. ‘Linka’s son could be like that... shaped by his mother, and perhaps by both of his fathers. Because if you love Linka enough to take her with another man’s child at her hip... well, you  _ would  _ be a father to that boy, just as much as any biological parent would. Parenting isn’t just blood, my friend.’

 

Wheeler swallows hard. The darkness surrounding him suddenly feels kind, allowing him to open up in a way he knows he couldn’t - or perhaps wouldn’t - under normal circumstances. ‘It’s ironic, you know?’ He says, his tone dull. ‘Trish and I tried to get pregnant for years... and every month... nothin’. Just Trish’s tears, and my growin’ resentment. Now, here I am, about to claim a life with the girl of my dreams... and wouldn’t you know it? She’s pregnant to someone else.’

 

‘That is irony,’ Kwame agrees.

 

‘With my luck, and my life, it figures,’ Wheeler exhales unhappily. ‘I’m worried I’m always gonna look at that kid and feel jealous. Like, he’ll be a living and breathing reminder that Linka was with someone else.’

 

Kwame sighs. ‘And your ex-wife will be a living and breathing reminder that you were once with someone else too. And that you tried for the full extent of your marriage to conceive children upon her.’

 

Wheeler flexes his arms once more. ‘You got me there, Kwame.’

 

‘I like having the last word.’

 

At that, Wheeler does laugh, truly and honestly. ‘You and Linka both. Maybe that’s why you get along so well.’

 

‘Perhaps, old friend.’

 

For a few minutes, Wheeler lets the hum of the vehicle around them lull him into a quiet, strange sort of peace. His mind is no longer running at speed, his heart has calmed, and though there is still that knife of pain running through him, the blade has been dulled somewhat by Kwame’s words.

 

Does he love Linka enough to love her child too? The thought strikes him hard, and Wheeler ponders it, his mouth dry and his soul heavy. 

 

It feels like a stupid question to ask himself, in a way. Because he loves Linka, unconditionally, he realises. She’s as necessary to him as food and water, and he can’t imagine going another day without her. Her baby though... her son... Wheeler’s head rolls back, hitting the side of the van painfully.

 

Linka’s son is a condition his love will have to face, he is beginning to understand. It isn’t ideal, of course... when he thinks of Linka growing big and round with another man’s child, a black feeling of despair threatens to engulf him. When he thinks of a little boy, with Linka’s hair and eyes but another man’s smile or face, tears sting his eyes.

 

‘Hey, Kwame?’ Wheeler asks, a thought suddenly occurring to him.

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘Who is the father? Do you know?’

 

Kwame pauses. ‘Richard, probably.’

 

The knife in his gut feels sharp once more, and Wheeler swallows heavily.

 

‘Dr Cox,’ he mutters, and he hears Kwame make a noise of surprise.

 

‘You know him?’

 

‘I saw him once, from a distance, in New York,’ Wheeler replies, thinking back to that day at NYU. ‘Linka was with him.’

 

‘She does not love him,’ Kwame says instantly. ‘We have had words about him before... I do not like how she leads him on.’

 

Wheeler kicks his feet against the side of the van again. ‘He seems like... like a good man,’ he says, bile in every word.

 

Next to him, he feels Kwame nod. ‘He is. But she does not love him.’

 

‘Why not?’

 

Kwame laughs good-naturedly. ‘Because she loves you, you fool.’

 

The blade of pain is dulled once more, and Wheeler takes a deep breath.

 

‘I’m gonna stick with her, Kwame. I love her too.’

 

‘And the boy?’

 

Wheeler bites the inside of his cheek briefly, taking another deep breath. ‘I guess I’ll learn to love him... for his sake, not just Linka’s.’

 

‘You are a good man, James Wheeler,’ Kwame says softly. ‘You deserve happiness.’

 

‘I’m gonna take em’ to Colorado, you know,’ Wheeler announces, not even realising what he was saying until the words had left his mouth. 

 

Kwame falls silent beside him.

 

‘Colorado,’ Wheeler explains, ‘well, I guess it was a place I learned to associate with happiness... happiness, and family. I only ever told Ma-Ti about it.’ He swallows heavily. ‘That’s what he meant... the day he died. When he said ‘Colorado’... he was talkin’ to me. Tellin’ me to go get it, to seize it by the fuckin’ hands and live it. He died, so I could have that dream.’

 

He pauses, hating himself momentarily.

 

‘I let him down, runnin’ away from everything like I did. I let him down, Kwame. I’m never gonna forgive myself for that. Or for abandoning you, and Linka, like I did.’

 

‘You can make it up to Linka, everyday for the rest of your life, if you choose to.’

 

‘You bet your ass I will,’ Wheeler swears, almost violently. ‘I’m gonna love her and that kid so much... I’m gonna be the best husband... and the best dad.’

 

‘Ma-Ti...’ now Kwame sighs. ‘Ma-Ti would be proud of you.’

 

Wheeler nods. ‘I wish I could see him, even if only one more time, and tell him that I did it. Tell him that I got my Colorado.’

 

But Kwame shakes his head next to him. ‘You will never get that chance... Ma-Ti is in a better place now. But you can tell him in your heart.’

 

‘My heart,’ Wheeler says softly, inexplicably thinking of Ma-Ti’s ring, of the rose-gold centre that glowed so beautifully when wielded in Ma-Ti’s palm. ‘Yeah, I’ll do that. Tell him in my heart.’

 

***

 

Wheeler falls asleep sitting up, and when he next wakes, the blindfold is gone, his hands are free, and he’s strapped into a chair. Kwame is next to him, his head lolling to one side, and Gi stands before them, all bubblegum pink make-up and cheery smiles.

 

‘Morning, sleepyheads,’ she says, in a sing-song voice that makes Wheeler wince.

 

‘Where are we?’ he mutters, and she grins.

 

‘North Korea.’

 

Immediately, Wheeler tries to sit up, to stand, but the restraints cut into his waist, and he forces himself to remain still.

 

‘What the fuck?’ he asks darkly. ‘North Korea? Have you lost your fuckin’ mind, Gi? Let’s leave aside the fascist dictator running this secret nation for a minute, and look at the fact that North Korea borders Russia... you must know Russia are after Lin... if they know she’s in North Korea, they might...’

 

But Gi only frowns, looking bored.

 

‘Don’t panic, Red,’ she says easily. ‘It won’t be a problem. Dr Blight and I have an arrangement with the government here. We have a lab, power, and access in and out of the country as we see fit, all in exchange for some...’ she pauses, ‘well, some scientific knowledge.’ She pats him on the head tenderly. ‘No one’s going to repatriate Linka, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

 

‘Where is Linka?’ he asks, trying to keep down, once again, that old rising panic.

 

‘She’s fine, don’t worry,’ Gi says. Her words are easy, but still, a shadow drifts across her face which makes Wheeler’s insides clench with fear. Gi frowns. ‘She reacted badly to... well... I took her to see an old friend, and she passed out... but honestly, she’s fine now,’ she adds quickly, seeing the thunderous expression in Wheeler’s eyes. 

 

‘If anything happens to her, or that baby, I will kill you myself, Gi. Fuck old friendships.’

 

Gi sighs. ‘No, you won’t. Honestly, still so dramatic. Linka’s fine. I wouldn’t let anything happen to her. And the baby... well, the baby isn’t even yours. What do you care?’

 

Wheeler shakes his head, looking at her in disgust. ‘That’s Linka’s baby you’re talkin’ about,’ he says sharply. ‘I love Linka. I’ll love her kid. And if anything happens to either of them...’

 

Gi waves her hand. ‘Nothing will happen to them. I promise, Red. I’ve been looking forward to this day for years... all of us together, again. It’s going to be wonderful.’

 

Wheeler draws in a deep breath. ‘Dr Blight might not see all four of us together again in the same way, you know. What the fuck are you playing at, gettin’ involved with her?’

 

But Gi’s face suddenly brightens. ‘No, Wheeler, you don’t understand... Dr Blight is helping us,’ Gi replies earnestly. ‘It’s like her deal with North Korea... we have an exchange planned. She gives me something, and we give her something.’

 

‘What?’ Wheeler snaps. ‘What are you plannin’ on givin’ her, Gi?’

 

But next to him, Kwame stirs. When he opens his eyes, they look glossy, almost hazed, and Wheeler looks at him worriedly.

 

‘You okay, Kwame?’

 

‘We’ll be landing soon,’ Gi interrupts. ‘And then you can both rest, before we go to see Dr Blight.’

 

‘I don’t need a rest,’ Wheeler says hurriedly. 

 

‘No,’ Kwame says, though his voice is weak. ‘We just had... what was it? An eight hour sleep, thanks to your little syringes.’

 

‘It was easier this way,’ Gi defends herself. ‘If you had just sat still, not fought my men... well, I don’t like sedating anyone. But Wheeler, you never know when to stop, do you? Couldn’t help yourself from lashing out, even at my people, who only want to help us.’

 

‘They were manhandlin’ me onto a plane to North Korea,’ he spits back at her. ‘If that’s helpin’ us, God knows what they’ll do when they want to hurt us.’

 

‘They won’t hurt us,’ Gi reassures him, but the blank expression in her eyes gives no comfort.

 

‘They work for Blight,’ Kwame tells her, shaking his head. ‘They aren’t helping us, Gi.’

 

‘You don’t know the situation... you don’t understand what I’m trying to do here...’

 

But Kwame’s face fills with a sudden sadness. ‘Oh, little Gi,’ he says mournfully, ‘what’s happened to you, old friend?’

 

Gi’s face stills, and she looks at Kwame with an abrupt, dark expression.

 

‘I found your ring,’ she says coldly. ‘While you were out cold, I had you searched. It was in your pocket all along. You lied to me.’

 

‘No, I did not,’ Kwame returrned calmly. ‘I told you it was somewhere safe. It is the Earth ring, and I am, until Gaia returns, the holder of that element. The safest place for that ring is with me.’

 

Gi stares at them both. Suddenly, she reaches into her pocket, pulling out from it a handful of gold.

 

Wheeler stares, his mouth falling open.

 

The five Planeteer rings. He hasn’t seen them together in years, and he feels, just like it was yesterday, the sheer potential within them flow through his blood. His skin warms, his hands clench, and the fire ring glows hot in Gi’s hand.

 

‘Woah, watch it there, Red,’ Gi says with a yelp, putting the rings back in her pocket. ‘We haven’t landed yet. You want this whole aircraft to come down?’

 

‘Maybe,’ he replies darkly.

 

But conversely, Gi looks pleased. ‘Your ring is working again, isn’t it? Just like I thought...’

 

‘That’s the first time that ring has glowed like that in years,’ Wheeler returns, but Gi still smiles.

 

‘It’s working again. I knew it. The Earth ring would too, if Kwame chose to use it.’

 

‘And your water ring?’ Kwame asks. ‘Has it been working too?’

 

It’s like a crack in the smooth visage of Gi’s face; momentarily, her lip trembles, her eyes darken, and her jaw sets. But just as quickly, she recovers.

 

‘It will,’ she says confidently. ‘Once I wake him up, it will.’

 

‘Who?’ Wheeler asks in confusion.

 

But Gi shakes her head. Voices sound from ahead, and she nods towards them.

 

‘We’re about to land. Buckle up, boys. This piece of junk airplane is hardly the geo-cruiser.’

 

***

 

They’re in a sterile looking hallway, cold and harsh with strip lighting. Pale-faced and wan looking employees scuttle past them, hardly looking up, and Gi, in her bubblegum pink clothing is like a splash of colour against them all. She’s smiling at Kwame and Wheeler as she leads them through what is clearly Blight’s base, chatting about the past and, once more, making worrying comments about ‘him’.

 

‘Linka got so upset when she saw him. But then, she’s been so ill with morning sickness, it isn’t really surprising...’

 

‘Linka’s sick?’ Wheeler demands.

 

‘I’ve been taking care of her,’ Gi replies. ‘I keep telling you, nothing is going to happen to her or the baby. I’m excited about being an Auntie too, you know. I can’t wait to see the little guy.’

 

‘You’re talkin’ like we’re all gonna get outta this place, Gi.’

 

‘We are,’ Gi says easily. ‘And then we’ll go back to Hope Island, summon Gaia, and it will be like the last ten years never happened.’

 

Her face is dreamy when she speaks, almost peaceful, and Wheeler looks to Kwame helplessly. But Kwame still stares at Gi, mournful and sad, and Wheeler feels his grief for their friend.

 

Whoever this girl is in front of them, it’s not the Gi they knew or loved.

 

‘Right,’ Gi says happily. ‘I’ve put some rooms aside for you both for the night. Of course, Wheeler, if you’d prefer to stay with Linka...’

 

‘I’m stayin’ with Linka,’ he says firmly, before Gi has even finished her sentence.

 

She stares at him.

 

‘There are security cameras across the room,’ she says. ‘Don’t fuck her if you can help it.’

 

He shrugs lazily, and he sees a shudder of irritation go through her.

 

‘I mean it, Red,’ she intones. ‘MAL is linked in to every camera in the facility. Dr Blight won’t be happy if she has to see you... well, you know...’

 

‘Why should she care?’ Wheeler says, leaning against a wall casually. ‘Unless she’s still put out that I fucked her sister years ago.’

 

Gi’s face goes deathly white. 

 

‘You slept with Bambi Blight?’ she asks coldly.

 

‘Yep,’ he replies, his eye drifting to a camera in the ceiling above them. ‘Fucked her on the set of that film... what was it called...?’ He shrugs. ‘Fuck it, it doesn’t matter. Such a long time ago. It was hot, though. Bambi was dressed as Linka the whole time,’ he whistles, low and leering. ‘What a night.’

 

Gi all but shoves him into a door that opens automatically behind him.

 

‘I know what you’re trying to do,’ she says, a warning tone to her voice. ‘Dr Blight won’t fall for any of your shit though.’

 

‘I fucked Betsi too,’ he carries on heedlessly. ‘She was cute as fuck. Fun too... such an earnest young woman. Then again, all the Blight women are sweet and attractive... with one notable exception.’ 

 

He hears another camera, zooming in behind him. He gives a contented sigh. 

 

He’s missed this feeling, in a strange way. It’s a high, adrenaline raising and unique, one that only comes with antagonising an enemy. 

 

‘Don’t mess this up for me,’ Gi warns. ‘Don’t push your luck. You know she’s dangerous,’ she adds.

 

Wheeler leans towards her, his lips brushing her cheek as he whispers into her ear.

 

‘Yeah. I know she’s dangerous, Gi.  _ But do you _ ?’

 

Gi shoves him away, watching him fall onto the floor behind him. ‘See you in the morning. If Linka needs anything, I’ll be there.’

 

‘She won’t need you,’ Wheeler replies easily, from his place on the floor. ‘I’m here now. I can take care of her.’

 

The door slides shut, locking Wheeler in, and Gi’s face of stone out. He takes a deep breath, running his hands through his hair, before looking up, trying to take stock of his surroundings.

 

A carpeted floor, warm beneath his legs. A pretty wallpaper of flocked linen, calming and neutral. A bed, stacked high with linens, a pair of green eyes looking at him coolly from within-

 

He’s on his feet in a flash, reaching the bed in two steps, hauling Linka into his arms and kissing her arms, her neck, her mouth... whichever part of her skin he can access. 

 

But she’s rigid beneath him, and he stops, running a finger under her chin and forcing her to look into his eyes.

 

‘Hey, Babe,’ he whispers, with a grin. ‘Nice digs you’ve got here.’

 

She looks at him wryly. ‘You are right,’ she says, her voice blunt. ‘Perhaps you should bring Bambi here. Or Betsi... if she is out of diapers yet, that is.’

 

He grins at her. ‘You heard all that?’

 

‘It was hard not to hear your big voice.’

 

He embraces her again. ‘I was just tryin’ to rouse Blight up,’ he explains. ‘Throw her off her game. You know, like the old days.’

 

She nods, looking at him seriously.

 

‘You did not sleep with Betsi?’

 

He shakes his head. ‘Hell, no. For one thing, she was from an alternate universe. And for another thing, I was kind of, you know, head over heels for you.’

 

A ghost of a smile crosses Linka’s face.

 

‘And Bambi?’ she asks.

 

He pauses.

 

‘Wheeler!’ 

 

‘Hey,’ he protests. ‘Look, we just shared a few kisses... maybe a little more...’ Linka struggles in his arms, trying to throw him off, but he holds on tight. ‘It was early on, Babe,’ he says, running his thumbs over her cheeks. ‘Before you and I were ever a thing. Bambi was cute, she was friendly, she was dressed like you...’

 

Linka stares at him, hurt in her eyes. ‘Am I so replaceable? A woman merely has to be blonde and friendly and in a pair of khaki shorts and you will take her to your bed?’

 

Wheeler sighs. Of all the arguments he thought he would be having tonight, one about Bambi Blight hadn’t crossed his mind.

 

‘No. Look, I never thought that you would ever consider a guy like me... and Bambi was there, and she was dressed like you, and I thought, hey, why not fulfill a fantasy, get it out of my system.’

 

Linka swallows. ‘Was the fantasy you created with her better than the reality of me?’

 

He shrugs, pulling her closer. ‘I wouldn’t know. Didn’t get that far, in the end.’

 

‘Why not?’

 

He sighs. ‘Bambi was a nice girl. But as soon as I had her naked, as soon as the image of you was stripped away from her...’ he shrugs again. ‘I just couldn’t do it. Knew then and there that there was no way of getting you out of my system, so to speak.’ 

 

With a sigh, he took one of her hands, pressing it to his chest.

 

‘Feel that?’ he asks softly, at the thump of his heartbeat. Linka nods mutely.

 

‘That’s my system, Babe. And it's yours, now and forever, if you want it.’ 

 

A tear slips down her cheek, and he catches it with his lips. It’s salt and sweet on his tongue.

 

‘Yankee,’ Linka stares at him sadly. ‘How are we going to get out of this?’

 

He sighs back. ‘I don’t know, Babe. Life’s...’ he pauses. ‘Well, it's complicated, right now. But we’ll figure it out. Kwame’s here too, and -’

 

‘Kwame is here?’ she asks. When he nods, her face falls.

 

‘Sam and Haya need him,’ Linka says fervently. ‘If anything happens to him -’

 

‘Nothin’s gonna happen to him, Babe,’ Wheeler whispers. ‘Gi mentioned somethin’... about a trade...’

 

Linka shivers in his arms.

 

‘What is it?’ he asks her immediately.

 

‘No,’ she says, and he hates how pale she looks, how wan and terrified in his arms. ‘No. I cannot tell you. Not yet.’

 

‘If it makes you feel better, you should tell me, Babe.’

 

‘No, I cannot, I cannot talk of... of... of him... of what she has done...’

 

Wheeler swallows. It’s time to lay all his cards on the table, and pray he draws the winning hand.  

 

‘You know stress ain’t good for the baby,’ he says calmly, and Linka looks up at him, her face falling.

 

‘You know?’ she asks, her voice unbearably small.

 

‘Yeah. Gi told me about the blood tests they ran on you. You’re pregnant.’

 

Linka sighs. ‘I was hoping to tell you myself.’

 

‘That would’ve been some conversation,’ Wheeler replies. ‘Maybe it's better this way.’

 

Linka nods, fingering the blanket in her hands. For a moment, she stares at the bed, and away from him.

 

‘How do you... feel.... about it?’ 

 

He takes a deep breath, prepared to be honest. ‘It isn’t ideal, not really,’ he admits, and he hears her breath catch in her throat. He knows she’s doing everything not to cry, and he pulls her against him, kissing the top of her head fiercely.

 

‘We’re gonna make it work though, okay?’ he says, kissing her again. ‘We’re gonna make it work. You, me, Richard... we’ll share custody, do whatever we can to make it easy for the little guy... it won’t be easy, not at first, and -’

 

But Linka pulls away, staring at him with wide, wet eyes.

 

‘Yankee...’ she begins slowly. ‘What are you talking about?’

 

‘Oh,’ Wheeler flushes. ‘Gi told me it's a boy. You didn’t know, did you? They found male DNA in your blood, which means the baby is a boy.’

 

Linka stares at him still. ‘A boy?’ she says, nodding. ‘Yes... a boy. Of course. A boy.’

 

‘I’ll teach him soccer,’ Wheeler offers with a smile. ‘Of course, I’ll have to learn the game first, but once I have the basics down -’

 

But Linka stops him, putting a finger to his lips.

 

‘Yankee, I did not mean... I meant... why did you mention Richard, just now?’

 

Wheeler swallows hard, forcing himself to face the truth once more.

 

‘Because it's his baby,’ he says simply, trying to dull the pain that shoots through him once more, focusing on Linka’s eyes, her hair, her mouth.

 

Her mouth, which has fallen open.

 

‘What are you talking about, Yankee? What do you mean, Richard’s baby?’

 

He stares at her, hardly daring to hope.

 

‘What?’ he asks quickly. ‘You’re ten weeks pregnant... you and I were only together... look, I know the maths... it can’t be mine.’

 

‘I’m six weeks pregnant,’ Linka replies immediately. ‘The baby is yours.’

 

Shit, Wheeler thinks. She doesn’t know. 

 

‘No,’ he says slowly, sadly. ‘No... you’re ten weeks. The blood test Gi did -’

 

‘I do not care about any blood test Gi did,’ Linka interrupts him. ‘I know my body. I have not slept with Richard in... well... too long for the baby to be -’ she pauses, taking his hand once more. ‘It is your baby, Wheeler.’ She stares at him, her heart in her eyes. ‘It could never be anyone else’s baby.’

 

For a moment, Wheeler cannot speak. But when he does, when he finds his voice, it’s broken with tears.

 

‘Really?’ He asks. He’s crying now, openly, and Linka laughs. This time, it’s her turn to wipe the tears from his eyes.

 

‘Yes, of course. It is your baby - _ our baby - _ of course it is.’

 

‘He,’ Wheeler corrects her. ‘It’s a boy.’

 

_ His son,  _ he thinks, a frisson of happiness running through him.

 

‘Maybe not,’ Linka whispers, clearly thinking things through. ‘Gi lied about how many weeks pregnant I was - I don’t know why she did, but she did... maybe she lied about the baby being a boy too.’

 

‘I don’t know,’ Wheeler frowns. ‘She looked like she was tellin’ the truth. Whatever Gi’s issues are, I don’t think dishonesty is one of em’.’

 

He pauses, looking at Linka imploringly.

 

‘It is  _ my  _ baby, right? Please, just tell me -’

 

‘It is your baby,’ she replies fiercely. Just as fiercely, she suddenly whispers. ‘And I think it is a boy... when you said that, it felt right.’

 

‘You think Gi was tellin’ the truth? About the blood tests... and your HC... HCE, or HCD or...’

 

‘HCG,’ Linka fills in.

 

He smiles at her. ‘HCG, yeah, that’s it. You think she was being honest when she said they were those of a ten week pregnant woman?’

 

Linka pauses, clearly considering his words. Her brow furrows slightly, and Wheeler resists the urge to kiss the line it leaves.

 

‘HCG is normally a reliable measure of early pregnancy,’ she tells him. ‘I am not certain... I would need to look it up... but the only way it might be higher than actual gestation is if...’

 

She stops now, abruptly pale again.

 

Wheeler looks at her. ‘What is it, Babe?’

 

But Linka takes his hand, laying it against his chest, so that he feels the beat of his own heart.

 

‘Your system,’ she tells him, before moving his hand to her chest. ‘My system,’ she adds, before moving his hand to the soft curve of her belly. ‘ _ Their systems,’ _ she finishes, and Wheeler’s eyes grow wide.

 

‘Two?’ He asks.

 

Linka nods.

 

For a moment, Wheeler stares at her wordlessly.

 

‘Lin..’ he eventually says, and she looks at him. 

 

‘Yankee?’

 

‘I’ve got to get you outta here.’

 

Linka nods, leaning into his chest. ‘All of us,’ she says softly. ‘All of us, Yankee.’

 

He nods, holding her close.

 

But in his mind, he’s already made a decision: she’s the priority, her and their boys, and he’s going to get them out of this place, and safely back home.

 

If it’s the last thing he ever does.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They were always going to be Wheeler’s babies, not Richard’s: I would never do that to any of my ships.
> 
> The stakes are high now. Next chapter? Wheeler and Linka talk some more, meet an old friend... and Blight drops in.

**Author's Note:**

> Wheeler POV next chapter. God help me.


End file.
